An adventure of a different kind
by Emily the Tsarina of Tokyo
Summary: Margret has grown up a bit, and is obliged to make her debut, though she'd much rather be romping about in her woods or sailing the high seas. But mystery and adventure is sure to follow Captain Margret wherever she goes. T for safety. MargretXOC
1. Chapter 1

Sir Arthur Merryweather believed that family was very important. Which is why, when his great-aunt Serafina wrote to him asking him to come for a visit, he wrote back immediately saying that he would arrive in two weeks time.

But as he rode in his fancy city carriage through the winding, bumpy roads of the countryside, never in his eighteen years had he regretted a decision more. They seemed to be going deeper and deeper into the country with each passing hour, and civilization seemed a long ways away in this rural area with its farms and meadows. More than once they had to stop for herds of cattle crossing the rough dirt road.

Shortly after a particular cow crossing where a few of the cattle seemed to be deliberately stopping right in front of the carriage, Arthur was staring vaguely out the window at a passing meadow, when something caught his attention.

The meadow had a small pond close to the road, with a few stumps sticking out of the water to the left. On the stump farthest out in the pond was a girl, who looked to be about his age, twirling slowly with her arms raised and palms turned to the sky. She had light brown, curly hair that was billowing wildly in the wind, and was wearing a dress that might have once been a fine gown. Her feet were bare and Arthur glimpsed large sea boots on the shore.

The girl saw the carriage and stopped twirling so suddenly, that she fell off her perch into the water with a splash that was audible even inside the carriage.

Arthur yelled to his driver to stop as he lost sight of the girl beneath the dark waters. He opened the door even before the carriage had halted and took off running toward the pond.

By the time he reached it, the girl was out of the water. She took one terrified look at him and grabbed her sea boots, running away as fast as her shivering body could take her.

_What is she thinking? I only want to help her!_ Arthur thought.

He ran after her, but she had disappeared into a forest, leaving no trace except a small trail of water that Arthur could not see.

Sir Merryweather's coachman came puffing up. "Sir? Whatever is the matter?"

"Did you see that girl who fell in the water?"

Mr. Briggs, the coachman, blinked. He knew his eyesight was failing, but he was sure he had seen no girl, and he told his master so.

Arthur told him to go back to the carriage, they would resume their journey shortly. He stood there wondering if he had really seen the girl. She had seemed so real, so…. beautiful, in a wild, fae-like way. And then he wondered if she had been a fae. He didn't believe in such things, but maybe he did now.

Yes, she might be fae, beautiful, but untouchable.


	2. Chapter 2

"Margret!"

Margret almost jumped in surprise, which would have been disastrous, as it would have revealed her hiding place.

"Margret, where are you? You'll be late for your fitting!"

She gritted her teeth and climbed higher into the tree, careful not to shake the branches.

"There she is! Up in that tree, good Lord! She'll break her neck like that!"

The groan that emitted from within the leafy canopy verified the new speaker's sighting.

Captain Margret Dashwood had been discovered.

Her mother helped her descend the last few feet of tree, and then tried to brush her down. "Margret! Why are you all wet?"

"Um, no reason, mother."

"Margret Dashwood, you tell me this instant why you are completely soaked."

"I-fell-in-the-pond-again." She said quickly, hoping Mrs. Dashwood wouldn't be able to understand her.

Unfortunately, she did. "How many times have I told you not to go near that filthy water? When will you ever listen? How are we going to make you into a proper lady when you go dashing about and jumping into lakes like a boy?"

Margret grumbled, "It was a pond, not a lake. And I didn't jump in; I fell when that carriage went by."

Instantly she knew she should have kept quiet.

"A carriage? You mean someone saw you? Oh, dear Lord, I hope it wasn't anyone we know! Oh, how silly of me, we only know two families who own a carriage."

Captain Margret went obediently into the house with her mother, listening to her fuss about ladylike manners and wet dresses, though her mind was off somewhere in Cambodia, fighting bandits and finding treasure.

She was jolted back to reality when Mrs. Dashwood said, "…I do hope you won't behave so when we are in London, people there aren't as understanding about these things, you know. I rather think they would look down on—,"

"London? Are we going next spring?" Margret interrupted.

"No, my dear, I told you last Sunday that we are to go to London with Mrs. Jennings in one fortnight. You are to have your début, as it is well past Easter."

Mrs. Dashwood had indeed told her daughter all this the Sunday before, but Margret had not been listening, for she had been busy charming a snake in India. Snakes are awfully testy and not at all charming themselves, and as brave Captain Margret had had to concentrate very hard, she had not heard a single word her mother had said.

But, now that her freedom was endangered, her mother had her full attention.

"My début? But mother! I don't need one, and I don't want to go to London! I should have to dress up for dances every night, and I would have to make idle talk with dull, pale, noble-people's daughters! And the chickens' eggs down at Mr. Daley's farm are going to hatch around that time, and—,"

It was Mrs. Dashwood's turn to interrupt. "It's already been settled by Mrs. Jennings and I. There will be no more talk of chickens and eggs, and other such things. You are going to London." She paused and added. "Oh, and don't call noble-people's daughters dull, pale things, even if they are."

Margret stumped upstairs to change, and halfway up, her mother called out, "Please put on something decent, Margret. We'll be leaving for you dress fitting as soon as you are ready."

Margret looked down at her mother in shock. "A dress fitting? What for?"

"You're going to need new gowns for our trip to London, dear. We can't have you appear in your present wardrobe, and I've already made arrangements with the seamstress."

_My mother can be absolutely insane at times! _Mrs. Dashwood's youngest daughter thought to herself.

Several harrowing hours and many pin-pricks later, the young Miss Dashwood was back in the tree she had occupied earlier that day, shuddering at the many marzipan and pastel colors she had been forced to try on. Things were looking very grim indeed for the brave Captain Margret, if this was the fate to be looked forward to. Dresses, hats, ribbons, and even a_ corset_, which her mother and the seamstress had been shocked to find that she did not wear. They were so tight, and they made her back hurt; it was almost like torture just to wear one for a quarter of an hour, and she had been subjected to wear one for hours and hours while that snooty seamstress had fitted her.

Margret wished she could run away to sea like a boy in one of the books she had read. She was quite sure she would make an excellent cabin boy, for she knew how to cook, clean, and tie the most fantastic sea-knots. The only problem was that she wasn't young enough to pass off as a boy, as she had grown in several different ways. And her hands were not that of someone who had been working hard their whole life, though they almost were; she always seemed to get her hands scratched up in some way or other, and it caused her mother a great deal of consternation.

Margret groaned, as her mother called up to her. "Margret, I am very disappointed in you behavior today. It was absolutely uncalled for you to bite the seamstress."

"I didn't bite her, mother, I only bit _at_ her. And anyways, she was poking me with those pins on purpose!"

"I'm sure she wasn't, dear."

Margret jumped down from the tree, scaring her mother quite badly, as it was not a small height.

"She was too, and she laughed every time I said 'ouch'. You just didn't hear her because you were so busy choosing fabrics."

Mrs. Dashwood sighed, and took her daughter's hands. "Please, dear. Promise me you won't behave so at your début, and I don't want you dashing about London. What would people think of you? They would think you uncouth and strange, and then you'd never find a husband!"

Margret had been just thinking that dashing about London sounded like great fun, and she was about to reply that she didn't need a husband, when she saw her mother's face. It was so distressed and imploring.

She sighed almost as her mother had, and said, "Alright mother. I'll behave myself."

One week later, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Dashwood, and Miss Margret Dashwood all arrived at Mrs. Jennings' London home. Captain Margret was intrigued by everything around her, and it took a great deal of willpower to keep herself from asking the millions of questions that were bottled up inside her. Instead, she observed as much as she possibly could. The neighborhood was well-to-do and very clean and boring, but Margret had glimpsed several lanes and streets that had been very dirty and interesting as they had entered the city. She wanted to run back the way the carriage had come and look down them and go into them, but she had given her word that she would act ladylike, and ladies do _not_ muck about in streets.

Mrs. Jennings insisted that they attend a ball that very night, one not too far away.

Mrs. Dashwood agreed.

Miss Dashwood protested.

But in the end, she was forced to put on one of the fancy dresses they had brought with them, and put up her hair in a fashionable and absurd way.

There was débuting to do.

Somewhere else in London, Sir Arthur Merryweather, having returned from great-aunt Serafina's was getting ready for a ball as well. Or, rather, his manservant was getting him ready. Gentleman never dress themselves, if they can help it.

Even as his manservant helped him put on the final touches to his ensemble, his thoughts were far away, in the countryside, with a wild girl who was a fairy. Or were fairies that big? No matter, the fae could appear however they like.

He only wished that this one would _appear_ before him.


	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Jennings was in a very good humor. Things were going very well, in her opinion. She and Mrs. Dashwood were introducing Margret to everyone they could find.

Miss Dashwood had met a lord's wife, a general's daughter, and even a serving girl. Though she had begun the conversation with the serving girl by herself, out of pure boredom, the poor girl who lived with her ailing grandmother was more interesting than anyone she had met so far. She was busy chatting about how to make eel pie, when her mother caught her by the arm and pulled her away. "Dear, what are you doing?"

"Talking. You told me to talk to someone instead of sitting in silence like a solitary stump. I was talking." Margret said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Mrs. Dashwood sighed. "I did not mean for you to speak to staff. It is not proper to talk to the servants."

"We talk to our servants at home."

"We are not at home. We are among higher society, and it is your début. Or do you not remember your promise about behaving?"

It was Captain Margret's turn to sigh. "All right, all right. I'll go talk to dull people, and make dull conversation about the dull weather."

"That's my girl."

One of the dull people to whom Margret was referring, just happened to be Sir Arthur Merryweather. He was making equally dull conversation, but his thoughts did not match his words. He was thinking of that fae (for what else could she have been? Normal people do not twirl about on stumps, and disappear instantly) he had almost encountered.

He was wondering if great-aunt Serafina might invite him to the countryside again, when his eye was caught by a glimpse of light brown hair. He craned his neck to see better, and was only rewarded by a very plain, mousey spinster, who looked nothing at all like the girl he had seen.

And he got a rather bad crick in his neck.

Arthur was very disappointed, and felt rather dismal. His mood was not improved when he bumped into a serving girl, making her spill a goblet of water onto him.

"You clumsy girl!" He fumed at her. She quavered, apologizing profusely, and trying to mop the water from his fine jacket. It was only water, but the way the two of them acted, it might as well have been a dark wine. He finally waved her away, smug and satisfied that she seemed sorry enough.

A girl with light brown hair stepped into the room from the adjoining one. There was nothing particularly extraordinary about her, except the extremely defiant, bored expression on her face.

And, of course, that she looked exactly like the girl at the pond.

Sir Merryweather stared obviously at her. Obviously, that is, to everyone else, except the girl. Her eyes were fixated on a group of young gentlemen, very near her age. She glanced at her mother, and, seeing that she was engrossed in dull conversation, made her way over to the young men.

They ignored her at first, but their attention was drawn to her when she made a comment about something that Arthur could not overhear. The girl next said something that must have been rather amusing, because the young gentlemen laughed uproariously.

They were soon talking away of this and of that. Arthur could only catch a few words every so often, and they were mostly subjects of wilderness, foreign countries, and military tactics. And the would-be fae was right in the midst of things, putting in her two-pence about almost anything and everything.

Arthur realized with alarm that the young gentlemen were becoming rather fond of her.

He walked straight over to them, in the way that interested young gentlemen will— acting uninterested, but making a definite path towards the group of gentlemen and the solitary young woman. When he reached them, he recognized a young fellow with unfortunate red hair to be a friend of his from school. Mr. Daniel Tourney, as he was called, recognized him as well, and immediately welcomed him to join the conversation.

The young lady was arguing a point of geography with a young man on her left, and did not notice Sir Merryweather at all. This was rather vexing, as he was not used to going unnoticed.

"No, I'm afraid you are incorrect, Mr. Langley! The source of the Nile is in Khartoum, not Libya! In fact, Libya is quite—."

Sir Arthur cut her off, just a bit rudely. "Actually, the source of the Nile is only _near_ Khartoum. It's not from there _directly_."

She turned to thank him for correcting her, but she froze when she looked into his eyes.

Margret had thought that she would never see those blue eyes that reflected the light just so, but she was, unfortunately, wrong.

For, standing before her, there was the same man she had run from only a fortnight ago, in all his lordly, gentlemanly glory.

Her mind was moving faster than wild Arabian horses, but she kept her outward composure at a slow, only slightly interested pace.

A slightly haughty look was in the newcomer's eyes as he bowed, saying, "I apologize, we have not been properly introduced, though I daresay we have met before. I am Sir Arthur Merryweather."

Margret did not like his tone of voice, and decided a bluff was in order. She curtsied politely, and replied, "I am Margret Dashwood, but I'm afraid you are quite mistaken. I do not believe I have ever met you before."

Mr. Tourney exclaimed, "Merryweather! You mean to say you know this delightful creature?"

Before Miss Dashwood could protest, Sir Merryweather said, "We met only briefly, but we did indeed meet."

Miss Dashwood was rather good at bluffing, and even more experienced at it. She cocked her head slightly. "I am quite certain we have not. I'm sure I would remember a _lord_. But my memory is quite impeccable, and I don't remember any such meeting. Perhaps it was another young lady. I'm sure you have met a great many, and it must be rather difficult to distinguish between those you have met and those you have not." At the young gentlemen's chuckles she paused, coking her head the other way. "Then again, it could be that you are only _pretending_ that we have met, in order to become closer acquainted with me. If so, our entire conversation has been a nefarious scheme to charm me out of my wits and into your arms. But it will not work, I assure you. I am harder to charm than a snake from India."

Mr. Langley applauded her, and Mr. Tourney laughed at the expression on young Sir Merryweather's face. It was a mixture of indignation, disbelief, and downright confusion.

Miss Dashwood was the only one of the group who was not laughing, besides Sir Merryweather, of course. She looked very grave and declared, "Well, Sir Merryweather, I am prepared to forgive you. In fact, I take it as a compliment that you deem me worthy of your charms. If you promise not to attempt to charm me, you will be allowed back into our most educating of conversations."

Sir Merryweather stammered. Everyone took that as an agreement, and thus the young gentlemen and the triumphant Captain Margret resumed their previously interrupted debate. She kept a careful eye on Sir Merryweather, making sure he didn't work up the nerve to make another attempt at calling attention to the pond incident. He did not, and for that she was glad. He remained silent, lost in his own thoughts.

Margret was discussing trade regulations, when her mother caught her eye.

Mrs. Dashwood did _not_ look pleased.


	4. Chapter 4

"Please excuse me," Margret said, curtsying suddenly to the gentlemen. She made her way over to her mother, careful to avert her eyes from those of her mother's until the last possible moment.

"Alright, mother, what have I done _now_."

Her mother was still watching the young gentlemen her daughter had been conversing with.

"Mother? What did I do? I wasn't talking to any of the staff, and they were rather respectable gentlemen. One of them was a lord!"

Mrs. Dashwood gazed pityingly into her daughter's large brown eyes. "Dear, it's not proper to include yourself in a conversation that you haven't been invited to. I hope you realize the seriousness of the fact that you were conversing with no less than eight men you hadn't been properly introduced to, _without_ even a female companion with you!"

"There were rather fine lads, and I thought you wanted me to catch a husband here in London!"

Her mother shushed her. "Lower your voice, Margret. It is not ladylike to raise your voice above normalcy. And please don't call young men 'lads', or talk about such things as finding a spouse, out in public."

Margret shook her head slowly. "I can't do anything right, can I?"

Mrs. Dashwood clasped her daughter's hand. "You just need practice in ladylike refinements. You're a very smart girl, Margret. But you still need to learn a few things about society."

Margret bit her lip, and her mother took that as an agreement. She led her daughter around to various noble-people who, she hoped, might influence her daughter's standing.

Meanwhile, Margret was formulating a plan. Something about the rather large crush reminded her of a story her older sister Marianne had told her, about such an experience. It hadn't been very pleasant to hear, but Margret now thought of a way to use it.

When they were in a relatively crowded room, Margret stopped suddenly, swaying. With a pitiful, small, "Oh," she swooned in a fashion that would put the best actress to shame.

Her mother, and another do-gooder in the crowd managed to grab her before she fell to the floor.

Mrs. Jennings, who was not far away at the time of the fainting, rushed over and pulled out a small jar from her reticule.

"Poor girl!" she cried. "I remember the same thing happening to her sister! These overly crowded balls are simply unbearable!" She unstopped the bottle and waved it under Margret's nose.

Captain Margret had been able to manage such smells as animal dung, stagnant water, and rotten hens' eggs, but it took her a great deal of effort to not bolt upright at the scent of smelling salts. Her scheme depended on almost complete incapacitation.

She barely fluttered her eyes open, moaning quietly.

She was perfectly prepared to do anything in order to leave the ball, but she was certainly not prepared to be looking up into the face of Sir Arthur.

Her eyes almost went wide in surprise, but she managed to keep them at a slightly interested peering. "Sir Arthur…?" she whispered in a soft, dazed voice.

Mrs. Dashwood was thanking him profusely for helping her to catch her daughter, and Mrs. Jennings began getting Margret to her feet.

Captain Margret made her knees go out from under her, like a land-lubber at sea. Mrs. Dashwood helped Mrs. Jennings to keep her up, and said, "Oh, dear, I'm afraid we must leave at once! I had no idea poor Margret would be so affected by the crowds."

She thanked Sir Arthur again, and she and Mrs. Jennings led Margret out into the night air. Her daughter breathed the cool air deeply, and gratefully. But she moaned slightly and put a hand to her head. "Oh, I have the most awful headache. What happened?"

Mrs. Dashwood patted her arm. "You fainted, my dear."

"Fainted?"

"Yes, dear. The crush of the crowd must have been too much for you. Though, I've never thought of you as having a weak constitution."

Fearing her mother was catching on to her little scheme, Margret said, a bit hysterically, "Oh, so many people! All in one room! I thought I'd never be free of that insufferable heat, mother."

Mrs. Jennings helped her into the carriage. "Well, it's all over now, my dear. As for me, I believe I'm getting too old for these balls. As soon as we're home, I'm going straight to bed!"

On the carriage ride back to Mrs. Jennings' house, Margret tried to look at pitiful as possible. She was an extraordinary actress, and pulled it off quite beautifully. Her mother and Mrs. Jennings were quite concerned for her.

When they arrived home, Margret trailed upstairs. Her weariness was not merely an act, for she was rather tired. She only hoped that Mrs. Dashwood might be convinced to let her stay home from the ball tomorrow night.

The next morning, as the two women and one young lady were having their breakfast, a large flower arrangement arrived, addressed to Miss Dashwood.

"How lovely," Mrs. Dashwood remarked. "Who are they from?"

There was no signature.


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs. Dashwood agreed to let Margret stay home from the ball when she saw her daughter's wobbly legs and pallid color. Poor Margret looked rather dreadful after the last night's ordeal.

Of course, that was exactly the way Captain Margret had intended to look. A little white face powder mixed with the slightest bit of gray soot, and a bit of acting was all that it took to appear the unhappy invalid. Margret waved weakly to her mother from the window, as Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Dashwood drove away in the carriage.

As soon as they were out of sight, though, she raced upstairs with the speed of a healthy athlete to wash off her "make-up". Then it was down to studying the mysterious, unsigned note.

Margret took out a large magnifying glass and held the small card up to it. The writing did not appear to be sloppy and uneducated, as if a servant had scrawled it. Indeed, it looked to be the penmanship of a very intellectual person. Probably that of a gentleman who had been to university.

Many of the gentleman with whom she had conversed the night before had been Oxford or Cambridge students. She racked her brain trying to think of which would be the most likely to send her such a note.

She finally decided on that Sir Merryweather. After all, he was the only one of them who had witnessed her fainting spell, and he was the only one who might try to play such a trick, as a return stroke for the way she had teased him in front of the other gentlemen.

He seemed rather proud and pompous. Puffed up on his title, he was probably offended that anyone should put him in his place.

He was not a _true_ gentleman in Margret's opinion. A genuine gentleman would never have brought up the subject of the pond incident in such a public place. But he had seemed rather determined to reveal that he had seen her before, even though to do so would expose her to scandal, and therefore he was not above contempt.

Well, Captain Margret Dashwood was not in the habit of letting proud roosters get away, without roasting them a bit.

The note was probably some childish scheme to make her fearful. She would not oblige him in any such way, however, and would keep such stoic courage as to frighten even an African lion.

At the thought of lions, Captain Margret left her examination of the note, and pulled out her atlas, which she had secretly packed in one of her trunks. She opened to a map of the Congo, and began her imaginary journey into the wild heartland of Africa.

ooOoo

_Brave Captain Margret Dashwood heard the ticking of the explosive devices, and ran up to the deck of the _Minstrel_. _

_Egad! The selfish crew of brigands and thieves had forgotten her, taking every last lifeboat available. There were no safety devices left aboard the small craft, leaving Captain Dashwood stranded in the middle of the river in a ship that was scheduled to blow up at any moment._

_The waters were infested with poisonous snakes, ruling out swimming to shore. Insects buzzed around Captain Dashwood's face, and she swatted them away, as her mind raced, trying to figure out the solution to her dangerous dilemma._

_Suddenly, the hoot of a Guereza rang out into the air. Several more followed, and Captain Dashwood turned her eyes to shore. An entire troop of monkeys was having a bit of fun, swinging back and forth on some vines hanging from the trees along the river. In a moment of distraction, Captain Margret thought of how adorable they looked, swinging about like that._

_An idea struck her brain like lightning. Captain Dashwood cupped her hands around her mouth and proceeded to imitate the call of the Guereza. The monkeys returned the call and jumped about, waving their arms at her. She repeated the call, and one of the monkeys swung out on a vine, in a wide arc, and landed squarely on the deck of the _Minstrel_. _

_Captain Dashwood caught the vine before it had a chance to swing back to shore. The small Guereza who had joined her, scrambled up her back and onto her shoulder. It nuzzled its shaggy head into her neck, and Captain Margret whispered to it, "Hang on, my dear."_

_She pulled back the vine as far as it would go, and took a running leap into the air. The vine went taut and carried her over the water between her and the shore, just as the ship behind her blew up in a large, fiery explosion. The monkeys on shore screeched at the noise and jumped about agitatedly. The Guereza on her shoulder clinged to her neck and head, it's piercing shrieks ringing in her ears._

_Captain Dashwood let go of the vine and landed on the shore. She looked back at the flaming wreckage that used to be the Minstrel, and wondered how she was to get back to civilization. She absentmindedly petted the shaken monkey on her shoulder, and set off into the leafy jungle._

A knock on her door awoke Captain Margret Dashwood from her adventure.

"Miss? I wondered if you might want to have your tea now."

It was Mathilde, Mrs. Jennings' maid. She was carrying a tea tray, with scones, butter, jam, and, of course, tea.

She was a bit shocked to see Miss Dashwood sprawled out on the bed, her head buried in a large, complicated looking book, with lots of big pictures of funny shapes and such. But she shrugged it off. She had soon learned that the young miss was always doing such queer things, and it was to be ignored and not mentioned to Miss Dashwood's mama.

Margret had leapt up at the sight of food, as she was rather peckish. Her stomach made an unladylike growling noise, but she disregarded it. The only one around was Mathilde.

And how was her stomach supposed to know what was proper and what wasn't?

She sipped her tea gratefully. Although she had only been pretending, the hot African air had dried her throat, and she was quite parched.

"Thank you, Mathilde!" she said, cheerfully.

Before the maid could leave, she stopped her. "Wait a moment! Mathilde, I'll be going out very soon, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn't speak of it to mother when she gets home. I'll be back by then, so there's no need for her to know things that have already happened." She winked at the girl. "And I'll give you a guinea or so, if you keep mum."

Mathilde, surprisingly, winked back. "Right you are, Miss Dashwood. I'll see to it that no one will be the wiser."

When she was alone, Margret sighed. She was glad Mathilde had agreed to keep quiet. Her jaunt would only be quick one to peep about the neighborhood, but if her mother knew about it, she would have a fit.

She jumped slightly when the maid returned, carrying a lumpy bundle. "I thought I might bring you this, miss. If you go out in all that finery you're wearing right now, you're liable to get jumped, you are."

Margret laughed. "Nonsense, Mathilde. Who would jump a _lady_ such as I?"

Mathilde implored her, "If you please, miss, that's exactly why you might be robbed. There's many a thief and robber who wouldn't pass up the temptation of such fine clothes as you're wearing at the moment. London may appear to be all balls, and frills, but you can be sure there's a darker underbelly of crooks and brigands, just waiting for some unwary soul who might venture out in the evening."

Miss Dashwood considered this. "I believe you're right, Mathilde! By jove, I'd bet best hat that there are all sorts of thieves and scum, just crawling all over this city! I must say, it was a wonderful turn you've done, in warning me! Now I shan't be unprepared! Give me those clothes and I'll be off! I say! Do you think I'll be attacked tonight?"

Mathilde did not exactly like the look of glee in Miss Dashwood's eye as she changed into the simpler clothes of the common-folk.

ooOoo

A/N: Sorry, I don't like doing author's notes, but I felt like I needed to this time. Oh, my goodness! I did so much research on Africa and such! It was amazing! Ok, you know how Margret goes to the Congo in her imagination, because she thought about lions? Well, lions don't live in the Congo nowadays (which is now called the Democratic Republic of the Congo), but they did a long time ago. The Guereza are real monkeys who live right around that area. You should look them up, they're really cute. And, at first, I didn't know if Oxford university and Cambridge university were established yet in Margret's day, but it turns out, they were! They've been around for a long time!


	6. Chapter 6

The streets were dark, but the lamps were being lit, so they were cast in a flickering orange glow. Things looked very different in the evening, and it took Margret a few moments to remember which direction she needed to take.

There were carriages rumbling about, taking their wealthy passengers to balls and dinners that would increase their social standing. Some carriages were private, some were hired, and still others were borrowed.

But regardless of what kind they were, they all looked large and dangerous to someone on foot. Margret had to jump out of the way every time she tried to cross the street. She was grateful when her route allowed her to keep to the side of the lane.

As she walked, the streets became dirtier and more crowded. She began coming across vendors of food, wares, and just about anything you could think of. A particularly tempting stall that sold roasted nuts delayed her journey, for a few moments, as she bought a small, delicious-smelling bag.

She was about to thrust her hand into the steaming pouch, when she spotted a group of small urchins, across the way. They were trying to sell odds and ends to the passersby. One held up a tarnished goblet, that might have once been part of a fine silver set, and another was showing off a pair of dingy woolen socks that had holes in them. The others were holding unrecognizable objects that all looked ratty, or dirty.

Margret was swamped with waves of compassion, as one of them begged a man for his eel pie. The man roughly pushed the child away from him, sending the little girl stumbling back into her friends.

Captain Margret set her mouth in a small, determined smile, and crossed the street, without being run over by any of the shabby dog-carts that traveled it.

The children were still trying to hawk their wares when she reached them. The small boy with the socks held the ratty woolen things out to her saying, "Please, Miss, some nice woolen socks for your feet? You'll be glad of 'em once winter comes 'round. Quality, they are, you won't find any like 'em, anywhere else. Only eight-pence, only eight-pence!"

Her smile grew. "Why, I was just thinking that I needed some socks! My feet do get rather cold at times."

The other urchins crowded around, as she took out nine-pence from her pocket, and handed it to the boy. He stared at the money in his hand, and said, "Miss, you over-paid me, you did!"

Margret was pleasantly surprised. "You mean you can count?"

He nodded proudly. "I can count all the way up to a hundred! From there it's easy. Anyways, these here socks are only eight-pence, and you gave me nine-pence!"

Margret beamed. "What an honest young man you are, indeed! And for your honesty, you may keep the extra penny! And," She dug in her other pocket, and pulled out the roasted nuts. "Here is a little something for you and your friends."

The children scrabbled at the boy as he held the sack high over his head. "One at a time, kiddies, one at time! Lemme count 'em, so we each get equal!"

A little girl in a dirty pinafore danced around impatiently as he counted. "Hurry up, Georgie, hurry _up_! Ooh, I can smell 'em, I can!"

"All right, all right, don't get your petticoats in a pile! There, done! Now here's your share, and yours, and…"

Margret was almost afraid that he would leave himself out, but George had saved the last share for himself. All the children ate hungrily from the little piles in their grubby hands.

From the looks of things, some hadn't eaten in days. Captain Margret prided herself in not crying a lot, like other silly girls, but she did not feel ashamed when a few tears glinted from her eyes, as she watched the poor urchins.

She called George to one side and took something out of her pocket. She placed it in his hand, and closed his fingers over it, saying, "George, I want you to look after the others, because you're the biggest. This should help you out a bit, and I hope you won't have to sell things in the street anymore." She smiled kindly. "And take care of yourself, Georgie-boy."

She let go of his hand, and George opened his fist, revealing four Five Guineas coins. His eyes grew as round as teacups, and he calculated in his head. That was twenty-one shillings! More money than any of them had ever seen!

"Miss, this is… this is…"

But she was gone.

He raced to look around the corner, but she was no where in sight.

"Oi, Georgie!" The little girl ran to his side. "Who was that nice young gel with the nuts?"

He shook his head in disbelief. "I think it was a bloomin' rich lady, Marie. Unless Angels go around on Drury Lane carryin' a bunch of Five Guineas pieces!"

ooOoo

Margret watched in happy satisfaction as George and Marie went back to the others to show them their new funds.

Who would have thought that children might find buried treasure like in the books?

She waited until they were too busy showing the others, to slip out from her shadowy hiding place. She had always wanted to duck into a little back alley to hide from a villain, but instead, she had hid from children!

She laughed at herself, and continued on her original course. Her encounter with the urchins had delayed her, but it was only a few minutes, so it was no great matter, though she hated to think how her mother might react when she told her that she was missing several Five Guineas coins, and she could not give an explanation as to why. But thinking of the surprised children's faces lifted her spirits, and, despite her dark and filthy surroundings, there appeared a skip in her step.

Her happy disposition was ruined when, suddenly, from around a corner, a staggering man crashed into her. Margret wrinkled her nose in mild disgust. He smelled of alcohol and cigar smoke, and he was leaning rather heavily on her. He was not a light man, and it took a lot of her strength to lift him back upright.

She mumbled a quick apology and was about to dash away, when the drunken man grabbed the back of her shabby shawl. "Where're yew goin', ya lil girly?"

She tried to shrug him off, but drink had mad him bold and strong. Not to mention strong-smelling. "Let me go, sir."

He scratched his unshaved chin with his free hand. "Polite, ain't ya? Though, if yew was rilly p'lite yew'd know to r'spect yer elders."

The last straw for Captain Margret was when the man thrust his foul-smelling, ugly mug in her face. She yanked her shawl away and pushed him a good distance in one fluid movement. "I only have respect for those who deserve it, and you are obviously not in the least bit deserving. How dare you detain a young woman, when she very obviously does not desire to stay?"

The man staggered about for a moment, before he righted himself. "Gaw!" He exclaimed. "Young woman, eh? Yew 'it more like a lad than a lass. 'Tain't roight, it ain't. I best be teachin' yew 'ow ta be'ave loike a proper young gel."

He made a grab at her, which she nimbly ducked. The drunken man's friends had just come around the corner, when she landed him a good uppercut to the jaw. One of them pointed and guffawed. "Oi, lookit! Old Bill's gettin' his block knocked off by a gel! 'e was staggerin' afore, but he's really dizzy now, I'll bet!" The other joined him in chuckling and chortling at their comrade's humiliation.

Margret's blood was up, and she rounded on them. "You should be ashamed of yourselves! All of you! Drinking your money away, getting so drunk you think a fight is hilarious! I bet you all have families at home who are worried about you, and worried about the money you've spent! If you don't have a family, all the better for them! You are the lowest, the vilest, most insensitive, selfish swine I have ever encountered in my entire life! I hope you all end up with splitting headaches in the morning!"

She marched straight through the group, daring any of them to say or do something, but not before she aimed a kick at the original pig, who was lying on the ground, senseless.

As she walked away, she heard one of them say, "Are yew sure that was a gel?"

Margret pushed a wisp of hair out of her face. She quickened her pace when she thought of how long she had been gone from the house. She practically dashed around a corner, and saw the reason of her venture.

"Mr. Gadow's Bookshop," she whispered happily.

It was a quaint store, with a small atlas globe in the front window, and several new novels on display. The letters that announced its name were painted in large, golden script, just above the doorway. Margret felt a bit giddy and nervous as she walked purposefully to the door, and opened it with two hands. A small bell tinkled gaily above her.

"Oh, hello, my dear! What may I do for you?"

An older man, alerted to her presence by the bell, was standing to attention at the counter. His hair was white, and his voice jolly and Margret immediately liked him.

"Good evening, sir. I was just wondering if you might have a copy of Miss Edgeworth's _The Absentee_."

He looked at her through his spectacles. "Ah, hoping to buy something for your mistress, eh? I'm sure she'll appreciate it."

It was then that Margret remembered that her clothes were that of the poorer folk, and poorer folk did not know how to read. She nodded vigorously. "Yes, indeed, it's her birthday tomorrow! I wanted to get her something special, you know, something she'll enjoy." She patted her pocket. "I've got the money right here. Saved it up from my wages, I did, all of it. She's been so kind to me, she has."

Mr. Gadow smiled at her kindly. "I'm sure she has, my dear. And I've got a copy right here." His eyes twinkled merrily. "I think it's been waiting just for you, young lady."

"Thank you, sir! How much is it?"

He told her, and she slowly counted out the money, just as she had seen George do. She gave it to him proudly. "There you are, sir, I think that's right, but you might want to make sure. I ain't that good with numbers and such, I ain't."

He counted and smiled. "It's just right, my dear. You may be better with numbers and such than you think you are! Here you are! Would you like me to package it for you?"

"Oh, would you sir? I can pay, if it's extra!"

"No, there's no charge for wrapping, don't worry your pretty head. Just wait a moment, and I'll have it done in no time!"

As Margret waited, she eyed a book about the world hungrily. It wasn't a book of maps, it was a book about all the different cultures and customs of the places she had read about in her own atlas, and it looked deliciously inviting.

"Ah, you like that book, eh?"

She turned around guiltily, and flushed. "Oh, I was just looking at the pictures on the front, sir. They look so colorful and beautiful and interesting. What is it?"

He peered at it a moment, before saying, "Ah, that's a book about the world. Very interesting, indeed."

"Is it one of those books with the big pictures with squiggly lines and such? The young master has one of those, you know."

He shook his head kindly. "No, but it tells _about_ the pictures."

Mr. Gadow was finished wrapping the book and he handed it to her. She bobbed a curtsy. "Thank you, sir. Now it looks all fancy like! My mistress will be pleased, she will!"

He stopped her before she left. "Do you like that book you were looking at?"

She laughed. "Only the pretty pictures on the front, sir. It wouldn't do me much good, it wouldn't. Can't read, dontcha know?" Margret skipped out the door like a little maid on her way home. She waved at Mr. Gadow through the front window when she passed it, and skipped away, hugging the package to her chest and smiling.

She felt a bit bad about lying to nice old Mr. Gadow, but she hadn't wanted to explain why a respectable young lady was traipsing about the lower side of London in common garb.

It just wouldn't do, it wouldn't.

ooOoo

Across the street, hiding in an alleyway, just as she had earlier, someone was watching Captain Margret with keen interest.

He had been watching her all evening, in fact.


	7. Chapter 7

Captain Margret was whistling as she knocked on the back door of Mrs. Jennings' house. Mathilde opened the door for her, and she skipped inside. "Oh, Mathilde! I got exactly what I wanted! Look, it's _The Absentee_, by Miss Edgeworth! Oh, silly me, of course you can't look, it's wrapped up. I do believe I'm quite giddy, Mathilde!"

Mathilde dutifully took her shawl. "Yes, Miss. And you weren't set upon by thieves with this get-up, now were you?"

Margret clapped her hands like a child. "That's the best part, Mathilde! I was almost accosted by a very rude, very drunk and smelly man!" At the maid's look of horror, she added, "But I straightened him out, and his friends, too! They were absolutely vile, and I scolded them very thoroughly, though I don't know what good it'll do them."

Mathilde's eyes were still large as she followed her to her room. "Oh, Miss! I should never have let you go, oh dear, I shouldn't have!"

Margret waved the notion away. "Nonsense, Mathilde! As if you could have stopped me! I would have gone without this wonderful disguise, and I would have really been in trouble then. So you see, you actually saved from a worse fate than what I endured. Oh, I almost forgot to mention the lovely children I met!" She related the story of the hungry urchins, and the maid's eyes were wet with compassion, as hers had been.

"Oh, Miss, I am glad I helped you, I am! There's many a child out on the streets that's in need of a bit of money, and I'm just glad you were able to help out more than a few!"

Margret's smile slipped a bit. "Though, I don't know how to explain so much missing money to mother."

Mathilde smiled encouragingly. "Don't worry, Miss," She paused, as an idea formed. "Miss Dashwood, I've just been thinking, and I do hope I'm not out of place in suggesting it, but, every so often, some charity or another goes around collecting donations for the poor. You could tell your mother that's where the money went. And, you did in fact donate to the poor, if you think about it."

Margret grabbed the girl and danced her about. "What a marvelous idea! What a grand, wonderful idea! I do hate to lie, even when it is a little, and now I won't have to! I'll just tell mother the truth, that I donated some money to the poor! Mathilde, I do believe my brains are rubbing off upon you, my dear chum!"

ooOoo

Needless to say, Margret's mother and Mrs. Jennings were both utterly delighted that she was contributing to society for the greater good. But, unfortunately, they also decided she was well enough to go to a gathering that was to be held by a friend of Mrs. Jennings'.

So, on the following night, Mathilde helped Margret to put her hair up in a fashion that was close to that of the popular women in society, as Mrs. Dashwood had instructed. Margret convinced the maid to put it up in only a slightly fashionable way, though, and it was now in a unique bun, held together by several crystal tipped pins. It was not at all unbecoming, and Mathilde commented on the attention she would get from all the young gentlemen.

Margret knew to whom she was hinting at, since she had confided in the maid about Sir Merryweather, and replied, "If I were to get attention, I'm sure it would not be wanted, if it came from a certain gentleman. Do not smirk, Mathilde. He is no better than any of the men I met last night on Drury Lane. He is handsome, I will grant you that, but I'm afraid it's that very quality that makes him all the more proud. He must think that everything and everyone revolves around him. His actions and conversation prove that."

Mathilde half-heartedly defended the man. "But, perhaps it is because he was indulged in as a child, and has never known opposition. I'm sure someone, especially you, might be able to pull him out of his pit of pride, for the salvation of his soul."

Margret thought a moment, as if considering it, and Mathilde thought she just might be, when Captain Margret exclaimed, "'Pit of pride', hmm? I do like that, quite a bit, actually. I must use it in a conversation with that rat of a man. Thank you, Mathilde! You've given me fresh material to insult him with!"

"Oh, dear," was all the poor maid said.

When Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Dashwood and Miss Dashwood arrived at the gathering, it seemed that society itself was working against Margret. I'm sure it was mere coincidence that the man she abhorred most just happened to be invited to the exact same gathering, but it was most certainly _not_ a coincidence that he was pointedly waiting for her at the entrance. Upon her arrival, Sir Arthur attempted to make his way through the crowd, but was hopelessly blocked by several weighty matrons. He cursed silently at his ill fortune.

Margret herself was thanking all the Heavenly Angels that he could not reach her. She made a clean getaway when she espied the general's daughter she had met at her first ball. The poor girl was quite pretty in most respects, but had an unfortunately close relationship with rich foods. She was, at that instant, clearly keeping herself away from the buffet tables set up against the wall, _and_ the pretty vipers that clustered in the middle of the crowd, being fawned over by tasteless young gentlemen.

Margret smiled as she walked to the general's daughter. She hoped to find a friend in the poor wallflower.

When she reached the girl, she extended her hand to shake, and said, "Miss Yancey, I believe it was? I wonder if you remember me—we met the other night— I'm Margret Dashwood."

Miss Yancey stared at the hand for a few moments, before slowly shaking it and saying, "Yes, I do remember. And please call me Mary, Miss Dashwood."

Margret's smile grew into a grin. "Well if we're going by first names, you must call me Margret, or Nuisance, or anything you like, as long as it's not Late For Supper."

Mary smiled slightly. "Goodness, what interesting aliases! I don't believe I could call anyone 'Nuisance', though. Good gracious, it would be a terrible joke if a parent actually christened their child that."

Margret looked very serious and said, "It would, wouldn't it? Though, _my_ mother wouldn't have been far off if she had!"

The looked at each other and dissolved into giggles.

Mary wiped a tear from her eye. "Oh, I don't believe I've had this much of a laugh since we had one of father's officers over for tea, and I put salt in his cup instead of sugar!"

"You did _what_?"

She smiled a bit sheepishly. "It was an accident at first, but as soon as I had picked up the salt, the entire scheme came to me like a flash of lightning! And I wasn't disappointed! I wish you could have seen that officer, coughing and spluttering as if he had a fish bone stuck in his throat!"

Captain Margret's eyes shined in admiration. "How perfectly marvelous! I've cooked up a scheme or two myself (all very rewarding, I assure you), but that was an absolutely spontaneous stroke of _genius_! I hope you won't mind terribly if I use it myself sometime."

Mary grinned. "Not at all! And you must share with me your larks; I want to hear all about them!"

Margret would have obliged immediately, if not for a particular gentleman, who, having disentangled himself, approached them. "Miss Dashwood, I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting your friend."

She scowled. "Miss Yancey, it's my honor to introduce you to Sir Ra— Sir Arthur Merryweather. Sir Merryweather, this is Miss Yancey, General Yancey's daughter." Margret said 'honor' with the utmost contempt.

Mary curtsied, but Sir Arthur only bowed slightly, making Margret all the more annoyed with him.

The talked politely of the weather, for a few moments, but it wasn't long before Mary exclaimed, "Oh, Miss Dashwood! There's someone over there I've been absolutely dying to introduce you to! Do forgive us, Sir Merryweather, but we must be going." She curtsied, and whisked Margret away into the crowd, leaving behind a quite bewildered Arthur.

As soon as they were out of sight, she stopped, a bit breathless.

Margret looked about. "Who is it you wanted me to meet, Mary?"

Her friend took in gulps of air. "Oh, that was a ruse to get us away from Sir Merryweather. I could tell you were quite put out at his arrival, so I decided it was time we left the conversation. Is there something about him that you don't like?"

Margret grimaced. "Yes, _everything_. He makes me so irritated with his proud attitude!"

"He's quite handsome, you must admit."

"That seems to be his only attribute."

"Do you really hate him so much?"

"I don't _hate_ him, exactly. I just wish he'd disappear into thin air, or go back in the hole he crawled out of. Perhaps an arrangement where he never appeared in public again?"

"Goodness, you really detest him! He must be an odious man!"

Margret shuffled her feet. "Well, er, not exactly. You see, he's just so proud! He takes an obvious delight in exposing others to uncomfortable situations, such as seeking us out as he did only a few minutes ago! He has been a thorn in my side since I met him."

Mary laughed. "You only met him a few days ago."

Margret winced slightly, thinking of the pond incident. "Yes, I suppose you are correct. Very well, I will wait until I have seen more of his pride before I wish him on the bottom of the sea. But it will be hard to bear, I tell you, and I will turn to you for moral support and a complaining companion." Her stomache made a slight noise. "I'm getting a bit hungry, would you like to join me for some refreshments?"

It was Mary's turn to wince. "Oh, no, thank you though. I'm fine."

Margret shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'll be back shortly."

The tables that bore the food were laden beautifully with all sorts of fanciful things for consumption, but most, if not all, were unfit for a nutritious diet, such as that of Margret. She enjoyed simple foods, without fat trimmings and rich garnishes. She picked carefully among the extravagant dishes to find the scarce vegetables and lean meats. What resulted on her plate was an unsatisfactorily small pile of food.

Margret was about to leave the disappointing tables, when someone whispered in her ear, "How rude of you to leave as you did earlier. And you were entirely discourteous rushing away from that pond like that, when I only meant to help you."

She turned, chagrined, to face Sir Merryweather. "I did not need, nor want your help, and I wish you would kindly not continue your constant mentioning of that incident. It is offensive, and very rude of _you_. And perhaps your conversation bored my friend and I, and that is why we left. After all, you are quite tedious to speak to."

He was quiet a moment, before saying, "I often do not converse with strangers as easily as others might."

Margret frowned. "Well, that's your problem, now isn't it? It has nothing to do with me."

He blinked. "That is not the reply I expected."

"I often do unexpected things."

Sir Arthur shook his head. "You are not like other women, Miss Dashwood."

She glared at him. "I don't believe that was meant as a compliment. Do you expect all females to be exactly alike? You are poorly mistaken, if you do. You have no right to presume such a thing, and yet you do, looking down on individuality and oddity. If every woman was exactly like the next, we would have no variety and the very walls of humanity would come crashing down around our ears. You may look down on the unordinary, but I value my originality highly."

He stared at her. "But, surely… Society dictates—."

She crossed her arms, still holding her plate of food. "Do I look like I care a whit about society?"

"Uh…"

"Good evening, Sir Merryweather."

Walking away from him and back to Mary felt quite refreshing and made Captain Margret very happy.

ooOoo

Eyes hidden among the crowd followed Miss Dashwood's every move throughout the rest of the evening. Nothing she did went unnoticed to the eyes—those eyes that burned with passion. Patience was key, but the owner of the eyes felt as if waiting was unbearable, when the quarry was directly ahead.

A/(really small!)N:

Yes, I totally took the conversing with people easily line from P&P (which I do not own). But the reply wasn't totally expected, was it? By the way, sorry, I don't like doing a/n either, but I had to! My fluffy cat minions made me! Ok, that's a lie, but, still!


	8. Chapter 8

"Miss Dashwood, what do you think of Mr. Heeler? He is a fine gentleman, is he not?" Margret held her nose imitating a certain lady from the previous night's gathering.

"Oh, no, no, no, Miss Aberill! I do believe you mean Mr. _Morris_! He is far handsomer that Mr. Heeler _and_ he has _seven thousand_ a year!" Mary made her voice shrill and piercing, imitating another unpleasant woman they had encountered.

The young girls fell about laughing, almost knocking over the tea tray. Mathilde clucked her tongue at them in a scolding way, although a ghost of a smile played about her lips. "Dearie me! You girls are going to do yourselves a mischief, eating and giggling at the same time like that, you will! What would your mothers say if they could see you now?"

Margret faked a gasp. "Good heavens, we are a disgrace are, we not?"

Mathilde rescued the tea tray before it was spilt. "All right, young misses, I'll leave you to your merriment. Don't break anything while you're in the throws of your laughing fits!"

When the young ladies finally regained their breath, Margret said thoughtfully, "She's right, you know. We are such wicked things, making fun of those poor women. After all, it's not their fault they have such unfortunate voices."

Mary thought a moment. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I certainly wouldn't want to be the butt of any jokes behind my back. Now, we must mend our ways and talk of other things, such as the weather, or dresses, or—."

"Or the new book I purchased!" Margret interrupted gleefully. "Oh we must read it together, it looks incredibly interesting! And what better way to enjoy it than to read it with a dear friend!"

Mary clapped her hands. "An absolutely wonderful idea! What book is it?" Margret told her and she gasped. "Oh, I've been meaning too pick that up forever, but I've never gotten around to it! Let's take turns reading from it to each other!"

Captain Margret and General Mary huddled together on the sedan, reading together and stopping at points to discuss what a ridiculous way Lady Clonbrony was using to raise herself up in society and how she was kind to Grace, and other such subjects of interest.

They read the whole afternoon, before Mary glanced, quite by accident, at the clock and exclaimed in horror that she was expected at home half an hour ago! Margret helped her with her shawl and hurried her out the door, not wanting her friend to come to any trouble because of her and her book.

The rest of the day was dull and boring, as she did not want to finish the book without Mary, and she had already looked at her atlas several dozen times.

She was just contemplating going out to Drury Lane again, when the post arrived. There were several letters for her mother and Mrs. Jennings, and even a wrong address letter, from a Miss Williams to a Mr. Sheridan. But the most interesting letter by far, was the one addressed to Miss Dashwood, with no return address to be seen, and no seal to identify.

Margret stared at the envelope in her hand. It looked perfectly ordinary: an off-white cream color, and her name and Mrs. Jennings' address in black ink. She opened it slowly, not knowing what to expect.

What she certainly _wasn't_ expecting were the three words that gaped at her from the otherwise blank page.

_You are admired._

Margret sank onto the bed, staring at the words, like a foreign animal that was threatening to attack. Such small words, and yet they caused such confusion in the adventurous mind of Captain Margret.

She had faced lions, and tigers, and snakes in her wild fantasies, and had overcome every obstacle in front of her, but this new challenge was more fearsome than any wild animal she had ever imagined. It was an unknown problem.

And for a single, fleeting moment, Margret Dashwood was afraid of the unknown.

Fortunately, the moment was a short one, and it passed quickly. Her fear left her, almost as if it had never been there, and it turned into righteous indignation. She wondered angrily who would send such horrid lie to her, and, in a flash, she remembered an unsigned card that had come with a certain bouquet of gardenias.

She rushed to a drawer in her bedside table, taking out the card and magnifying glass. Margret placed the letter and the card side by side and held the glass up to them.

She smiled grimly.

The handwriting matched exactly.

Captain Margret wanted to crumple both pieces of paper and throw them in the fire, but decided that it was best to keep them safe.

At least now she knew who was responsible.

ooOoo

Mary invited Margret for a picnic in one of the beautiful parks of London. The day was fine, and the flora in bloom and the two girls ended up strolling along the many pathways laced with flowers. They passed many young people like themselves, strolling about and resting on benches, admiring the view and each other. Several times, young gentlemen paused to talk politely with them, though the two young ladies paid little heed to them.

They had brought their sketchbooks and drawing pencils, and were looking for the perfect spot to draw, when Margret spotted a gentleman and his friends who looked quite familiar.

She tugged on Mary's arm, pulling her behind some beautifully large hydrangea bushes. "Oh, dear, I hope they have not seen us."

Mary looked around the bushes. "Who?"

Margret sighed. "Sir Merryweather. He and his friends are talking near the fountain."

"Oh. I do see why you would want to avoid them, but, really, hiding behind hydrangea?"

"It's a bit silly, I suppose, but we can move along so we're not hiding anymore. Let us go quickly, though."

They walked on, acting casual and normal. Their efforts were in vain, however. An unfortunate rustling occurred, involving a certain hydrangea bush and a gust of wind, causing Sir Merryweather's party of gentlemen to glance the young ladies' way.

Sir Merryweather, being the _kind_, _considerate_ gentleman he was, invited them to join in the conversation, to which, they falteringly accepted.

Mary, being the only of the two polite enough to be sociable, was paid great attention during the course of the discussion. Margret, however, refused to be sociable, and was content to stare at her feet and a rose hedge, each in their turn. It was not for lack of invitation to dive into the thick of the conversation, for Sir Arthur indeed attempted to coerce her into speech, but, rather, the lack of inclination and any desire at all, that prevented her from spouting the barbed returns that begged to leap off her tongue. At times, when Sir Arthur was being especially devious in baiting her to speak, she almost let loose with a whirlwind of expletives and insults she had heard at country inn, with the sole purpose being to slice through to the very core of Merryweather's spine.

Nothing would have pleased her more than to humiliate him publicly, and at moments when her heart was very bitter indeed, she was sorely tempted to do so. She gritted her teeth, though, and bore it best she could. If she were to give into her sour desire to wound his pride, she imagined what her mother, Mary, Mrs. Jennings, and even Sir John back at Devonshire would think of her, and her troubled spirit was quieted until the next instant arose, and the process had need of repeating.

Now, I must remind you that the blame should not fall entirely on Margret, or you will be entirely set against her character from this one instance of humanity. After all, she is not perfect and only half the blame should be placed on her shoulders.

Sir Arthur was in the same mood as Miss Dashwood, if not in a _more_ cynical disposition, and his own bitter heart wanted greatly to expose the sharp tongue that hid between the rosy lips he so greatly admired. If he had succeeded, I'm sure he would have felt very sorry afterward, indeed, he only desired the joy of hearing her extremely witty insults for the moment that they were fresh, in an almost masochistic way. But when the moment was past, he would have come to the realization that in insulting him in front of the other gentlemen, in a public park no less, she would have been subjected to shame.

Thank heavens Margret was very well aware of what would happen if she spoke the reply that had entered her head, which involved the words "egotistical" and "wild ass", and was able to hold on to the last shreds of her dignity by remaining silent.

At length, two of the young gentlemen excused themselves to appointments, and the remaining gentleman invited Miss Yancey, that is, Mary, to continue their previous stroll. She accepted, and Sir Arthur, in turn, posed the same question to Miss Dashwood. She accepted in order to not displease the leprechauns of propriety, who were, no doubt, laughing at her unfortunate situation of having to bear the odious man's company any further.

Sir Arthur, no doubt, was thanking them. For here presented itself another opportunity to unearth the secret wildness he had first seen by the pond, that he so longed to see again. He longed dearly to release the hair that was so tightly pinned to its former glory of reckless abandon. He yearned—dare he hope?—to set her upon a golden pedestal and worship her dryad glory among the roses and lilacs that surrounded him. His passion was enough to make him blush, for such feelings had never stirred within that proud chest, as they did now.

Margret noticed his change of color, and wondered, for a puzzled moment, how such a prideful being could achieve such an embarrassed expression. His glance at her deepened the red that suffused his cheeks, and created a slightly pink disturbance on her own. She had no idea what went on his mind, but whatever it was, her opinion of it was not improved by the sudden memory of the letter he sent her.

The attractive pink which had graced her features was immediately altered to a cold, hard countenance that threatened of stormy weather. Sir Arthur was disturbed by such a transformation, and inquired after her health, with the concern of a bitter heart turned only slightly noble.

Margret fixed him with a steely gaze. "My health would be tremendously improved if I did not receive letters that professed flase-hoods."


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur blinked. "I— you— what?"

Margret didn't even bat an eye. "I think you know what I'm talking about, Sir Merryweather. I find it very hard to believe that you would detour from the rules of conduct, and yet the evidence is tucked safely in my drawer. The absolute filth I have received from you has made me completely disgusted with you. How can you write such a lie? Have you no conscience? I had hope for you, wanting to believe that in time I would not despise you completely, but instead, I grow more and more repulsed by your arrogance and self-importance."

He spluttered. "But, it wasn't a lie! I wrote that in complete honesty, and hoped you would understand!"

"You have lost what little trust I had put in you. I have nothing more to say than that I hope you will someday be treated as you have treated me. Good day, Sir Merryweather."

Sir Merryweather strode after her. "Wait, Margret!"

She turned on him, eyes flashing. "If you ever dare to call me by my Christian name again, I swear, I will tear your limbs from you body with my bare hands and hang your dismembered corpse in a public square for all to see. I said 'good day'."

Margret left him standing in the middle of the path, his eyes full of fear.

Mary was talking gaily with the other young gentleman, and Margret hated to interrupt, but she had a splitting headache and could not stand to stay in the same park with Sir Merryweather.

Mary, being the dear she was, immediately noticed the signs of agitation written all over her friend's face, and excused herself from the conversation. Margret thanked her and apologized profusely all the way back in the carriage they hailed. "I'm so terribly sorry, Mary. I could tell you two were having such a lovely time, and I had to butt in and ruin it. He seemed to like you tremendously— do you think you will see each other again?"

Mary nodded. "Yes, we're both to be in attendance at the ball tomorrow night. Speaking on the subject of balls, there's to be one held tonight. Do you think you will be coming?"

"Knowing my mother and Mrs. Jennings, I doubt I will have any choice otherwise."

She was quiet for a while, worrying Mary quite a bit. "Did your conversation with Sir Merryweather go _that_ badly?"

Margret chuckled without mirth. "Even worse. I threatened him with bodily harm, but only after he had the audacity to use my Christian name. The rest of the conversation is something better left unmentioned, and would be close to mediocre gossip. I behaved rather impolitely, considering his status as a lord, but I'm so angry, Mary. At the moment I cannot even _begin_ to consider forgiving him, though I know he is only human and therefore prone to human sins."

"You are human too, Margret. You cannot be a saint _and_ a woman. You are entitled to your own moments of earthly sins, such as anger. You would not have your humanity without them, and have no reason to be hard upon yourself."

Margret groaned. "Oh, please, Mary. Do not attempt to console me, for I am past any hope of pleasure. Just let me wallow in regret and don't worry about me, for the moment will pass, indeed, almost too quickly."

Mary laughed. "Dear me, Margret, I do believe you have become quite the tragic heroine. The moment will pass, yes, but I'm quite sure it will return tonight at the ball when you see a certain repulsive lord."

Captain Margret sat bolt upright. "No! You don't think he will come tonight, do you? How stupid I am; of course he will be there. To the public eye nothing will have changed and he may go to balls as he pleases. We will both suffer in silent agony at the sight of each other."

Needless to say, Margret's prediction came true. The ball had a wonderfully light atmosphere, what with couples dancing and talking, often at the same time, and Miss Dashwood was the only silent guest in attendance. Mary danced with no less than seven gentlemen, including the young man from the park, Mr. Sourney. She laughed and talked merrily, but every once in while, she happened to glance at Margret and she would remember the pain her friend was suffering, gazing solemnly away from Sir Merryweather, whose own eyes followed her constantly.

Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings' only clue that Margret was under stress was that she remained melancholy for the entire evening, and even then they only guessed that she was tired from the morning's exercise in the park. She encouraged this notion by declining every offer to dance with an apologetic shake of her head and a quiet excuse. She had no inclination for merriment, and sat quiet as a mouse in a chair in the corner, observing, but not taking part in the goings on.

Sir Arthur, however, seemed perfectly at ease, conversing easily and enjoying himself. In reality, his mind was elsewhere, brooding over his situation involving Miss Dashwood and how he might redeem himself in her eyes. I will not keep from you the fact that Sir Arthur was quite a selfish being, and had not met any opposition before, least of all in a woman. He was used to having his way, and quite used to the lofty position life had put him in. In the past, a woman even slightly below his station was to be ignored, and only those in the way of power and fortune should be considered. I'm sorry to say, Sir Merryweather's proud mind had never encountered such problems as it did now, and he was quite overwhelmed at the thought of lowering himself to any solution that presented itself. He stewed and simmered for days on end after the ball, hardly coming to any decision.

Margret was hardly much better. She and Mary took walks everyday, talking together quietly. Their walks grew shorter and shorter each day, until, finally, they stepped out of Mrs. Jennings' house and decided to go back in.

Once inside they began to talk things over morosely. A knock on the door interrupted them, and Mathilde presented a messenger bearing a small envelope for Miss Dashwood. He left, and she opened it.

"_Miss Dashwood, please accept my formal apology for the letter which seemed so offensive to you. I had no intention of causing such pain as it did for you. The words I penned were honest, though I fear I cannot convince you of such. Again, I apologize for my misconduct and the use of your familiar title. Regards, Sir Arthur Merryweather._"

Mary looked at Margret in shock. "Whatever can he mean by this?"

Margret was just as shocked. "Mary, please go to my drawer and bring me the note and letter that lay there." When she had both, her hands shook.

Mary tried to comfort her. "Don't worry; he cannot hurt you with an apology, though it may be false."

Margret's eyes were wide. "Mary, this— these— the handwriting doesn't match!"

"What?"

"Someone else wrote the note and letter!"


	10. Chapter 10

To say that she was shocked could not begin to do justice to the emotions Margret was experiencing. It was indeed one of the feelings however, along with regret, anger, and downright bewilderment.

If Sir Merryweather was not the culprit, then who was?

If Sir Merryweather was not the perpetrator, then, what had he been talking about in his letter of apology?

If Sir Merryweather was not an _absolutely_ revolting man, than what was he?

_If Sir Merryweather is not any of these things, then why am I asking myself questions I cannot answer? _Margret thought to herself.

"Is there anything I can do, Margret, dear? You look terribly pale. I don't think you're taking this very well."

She shook her head. "No, thank you, Mary. I don't think there's anything anyone can do. I feel quite at a loss for words or actions, or even competent thoughts. Perhaps I'd better lie down." She sank onto the couch, holding a pillow over her face.

Mary tapped her shoulder after a moment or two. "Margret, dear, you'll suffocate if you keep that thing where it is."

The muffled reply came that that was what she was trying to accomplish, and Mary, quite alarmed, removed the plush suicide weapon from her grasp.

"Mary, I'm acting like Marianne used to, aren't I?"

Her friend, having been informed of every aspect of the Dashwood family's eventful life several years ago, knew full well what she refered to, and agreed heartily. "If you're not careful, you'll end up meeting a handsome man who'll break your heart."

"I already have, but instead, _I_ may have been the one who shattered any chance of civility between us. Perhaps not, for he may be as proud as I imagine him, and counts it as a mere injury done to him by a common, ignorant young woman who has no idea the power and fortune she has passed up."

"Whatever makes you feel better."

Margret groaned. "Never having to see Sir Merryweather again would make me feel tremendously better."

Mary tapped her chin. "It's possible that can be arranged, at least, temporarily. How would you like to spend the summer with me, at my father's estate in Havetsbury? We'll have a lovely time by the sea, and you can try to forget the madness that's going on here."

Margret's eyes brightened. "Can we go fishing?"

Mary blinked. "Fishing? Well, we'll have to be devious about it, and go somewhere no one can see us, but I suppose so— if you really want to."

"Oh, it sounds almost too good to be true! I'm sure mother will give me permission, after all, I am old enough to take care of myself, and going to the country for the summer _is_ fashionable!"

"The _sea_, no less."

"Oh, dear, I'm so giddy with excitement, I almost started chattering away about what clothes I should pack, though summer is still far away."

"Oh, it's closer than you think. You see, father had been pestering me about inviting a friend for the summer for the longest time, so it might be best to leave as soon as possible."

"The sooner the better, though I'm afraid I'll have to stay in London at least a week longer for this to be a proper debut."

A knock on the doorframe alerted them to Mathilde, bearing an envelope. "Another letter for you, Miss Dashwood. My, my, two letters in one day, you are quite popular, you are, Miss!"

She left, and Margret opened the letter as casually as possible. She almost shrieked, however, when she saw the contents. "Of all the…! Mary, it's from the mystery writer! Look:

_On a day, alack the day!  
Love, whose month was ever May,  
Spied a blossom passing fair,  
Playing in the wanton air:  
Through the velvet leaves the wind  
All unseen, gan passage find;  
That the lover, sick to death,  
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath,  
'Air,' quoth he, 'thy cheeks may blow;  
Air, would I might triumph so!  
But, alas! my hand hath sworn  
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:  
Vow, alack! for youth unmeet:  
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.  
Do not call it sin in me  
That I am forsworn for thee  
Thou for whom Jove would swear  
Juno but an Ethiope were;  
Turning mortal for thy love.__'_

It's Shakespeare! _Love's Labour's Lost_, I believe!"

"I suppose so, though I never was one for Shakespeare."

Margret ran to her trunk and produced the correct volume, flipping furiously through the pages. "Ah, hah! Just as I expected, it's from Act IV, Scene III! Whoever it is can't even compose their own poetry, so they go and steal from geniuses. I'm beginning to loathe this phantom even more than I did Sir Merryweather."

"That's lovely. So about coming to stay over the summer?"

ooOoo

The sea air improved Captain Margret's disposition incredibly, and the prospect of sea-fishing did even more. The wonderful days of lazy summer were spent in a leisurely fashion, with no particular plans and no set schedule to keep. Mary had wanted to try sea-bathing, and try they did, but despite the southern air, the water was quite chilling.

Not quite an appealing condition for bathing.

Nevertheless, their holiday was lovely and warm, and so were the people. Margret was in full bloom, as romping about the countryside was what she did best. Mary's cheeks took on an attractive pink hue, and the daily exercise agreed with her tremendously. If there had been any balls, I'm quite sure they would have been the perfect belles; the envy of many young ladies and the objects of affection for quite a few young gentlemen.

On one particularly beautiful day, as they were just coming in from picking wild flowers, a letter arrived addressed to Miss Dashwood. It was right on schedule with her fortnightly letters from Mrs. Dashwood, and indeed, Margret was anxious to open it. Her mother had mentioned a surprise in her last letter, and had hinted that she would reveal all in her next.

Mary rang for tea, and Margret tore into both the letter and a heavenly biscuit. She almost choked, however, when she read the contents of the much-awaited letter.

Mary patted her on the back. "Bad news from you mother?"

Margret got a hold of her coughing spasms. "It's not even _from_ my mother. That dreadful mystery writer has found us! What I can't understand is how they knew I was here! We told plenty of people of course, but never the exact location. Good gracious, I can't believe the absolute nerve of this person; the tripe in here would make the devil blush!"

"Let me see."

_Thou art lovely as the golden sun,_

_For none can compare to thee, _

_In the shadow of thy radiant beams of beauty._

_Thy lips are red as roses waiting to be plucked,_

_And thy hair is like a chestnut waterfall, sparkling in the light._

"Well, it's not as bad as you made it out to be. At least it's original. Though, I must agree that they're getting bolder."

"Oh, why can't they just leave me alone?"

Despite her dampened spirits, Margret was still excited by their excursion that very afternoon. They were to begin a short walking tour of the surrounding countryside, rest the night at a small inn, and return to the estate the following day by a different route.

Their pace was easy-going, and they pointed out to each other various estates and houses, and made up stories about who lived there. Their tales were far-fetched and full of magical beings, such as the fae, ogres, centaurs, and other mythological creatures. At one particularly grand estate, Margret delighted in laying out the owners in full spread. "Oh, that one's owned by a dreadful vampire count, who preys on young maidens on walking tours. It is said that he hides behind that very tree up yonder, and springs out at them to suck their blood and make them his brides. He has at least several dozen wives at once, but some of them die before a fortnight!"

Mary shivered. "Margret, you are quite a story-teller; you had me frightened out of my wits for a moment, before I remembered it was only a story. But how could you put us in it? I certainly don't want to become a vampire bride, even if it's only in fiction."

Margret laughed. "Nor do I, but I didn't really put us in. All I said was, 'Maidens on walking tours'. That doesn't necessarily mean _us_."

"It is us and you know it. Come on then, spit it out. You're just dying to make us the heroines of your story."

"Well, one day two _very_ fair young maidens happened to be on a walking tour, and they were quite enjoying themselves, when, suddenly, a huge black figure sprang out at them from behind the tree, fangs flashing and cloak billowing! The maidens did not even bat an eye! They snatched his cloak, and with a mighty lunge, pushed him into the river! And as everyone knows, vampires are ver—."

She was cut off when Mary gasped as a black figure did indeed move from behind the tree. It was not a vampire count, however.

It was a Sir Merryweather—though, considering the fright he gave Margret, it might as well have been a specter.

"Sir Merryweather! What are you doing here?"

It was Mary who spoke, for Margret had lost her tongue, and was searching for it fruitlessly.

He was both surprised and confused. "This—I live here. This is my family's estate."

"Oh, dear," was all Margret said.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"My father owns an estate not far from here, where we're staying for the summer. We were just on a walking tour." Mary glanced at Margret, but, after getting over the initial shock, she was quite composed.

Sir Merryweather cleared his throat. "Well, if you don't have anywhere to stay the night, I offer my own guest bedrooms to your usage. They are quite spacious and very comfortable, I assure you."

Margret gave a slight curtsy. "Thank you, but, no. We have already arranged for lodgings, and besides, I hardly think that two young ladies who are alone could stay at a mansion owned by a single man." She added, with a bit of dignity, "It would not be proper."

"Oh, yes, of course," Sir Merryweather stumbled over his words. "Forgive me for attempting to be hospitable."

Mary bid him a hasty farewell, and was tugging on Margret's arm, when her friend stopped her. "It's alright, Mary. You go on ahead, and I'll catch up in a moment." Her friend shrugged and continued on the path, glancing back several times at the two.

Sir Merryweather commented, "Miss Yancey looks lovely."

"Yes, she does. Sir Merryweather, I'm quite hesitant to ask, but I must know—."

She was cut off for the second instance that day, this time by Mary's screams. Both she and Sir Merryweather raced towards the sounds. They found her clinging to a rock ledge a little ways below the bank of the river, where the waters had descended, leaving a large precipice high above them. Captain Margret instantly lay flat on her stomach and reached down to Mary, but her arms were not long enough, and she could not reach her friend. Sir Merryweather, who, until that moment, had been watching in shock, hauled her up and gently pushed her aside. He himself resumed her position, with more success than she had had. Mary grasped his hands and used them to help her climb up the face of the bank. When she reached the top, she scrambled away from the edge as fast as she could.

Margret was instantly by her side. "Mary, are you alright?"

She nodded. "I think so. Just a bit bruised and battered, though it's my own foolish fault, I suppose. I wasn't looking where I was walking and slipped right off the side."

Margret laughed shakily. "No more river banks for you today." She remembered Sir Merryweather, and stood to meet him eye to eye. "Thank you, sir. I do not know where we would have been without you."

"Well, er, no thanks needed." He was not used to being heroic, and it was a new and strange feeling to be _thanked_ by the very girl he admired. He quite liked it.

She turned to Mary and took her arm. "I'm afraid we must be going, now. Thank you again, Sir Arthur."

There it was again! A feeling of elation went through him as she thanked him, which was increased when she used his more familiar title. If this was what being a hero was like, he decided he would have to save peoples' lives more often.

They parted, and the young ladies made it to the inn by evening, and back to Mary's father's estate the next day. They did not speak of the accident to anyone.


	11. Chapter 11

Isolation seemed no longer possible after the accidental encounter with Sir Merryweather. Mary's father arrived for a surprise visit with several officer friends, and they planned to stay at the estate for an entire week. From that moment on, every supper was an important affair, and Mary and Margret were obliged to be on their best behavior at all times. As they were not included in the conversations, which were described as "dull and boring for young ladies" by several of the men, the whole thing became ever so slightly…. tiresome.

On one particular evening, the party adjourned to the library, and Margret and Mary to a private parlor. After an increasingly long time in which Margret proclaimed that she was about to die of boredom and Mary agreed with her statement, the former decided to venture into the library for the briefest of moments to purloin a book. This would have been all well and good if not for the officers who were temporarily weary of each others' company, and who invited her to join them in polite conversation.

The opening subjects were of the agreeable weather and company, but as will all restless conversation, the course of the discussion soon turned to far more exciting subjects. Africa and India were the most interesting, and soon everyone was chatting good-naturedly in a most lively discussion.

Major Leslie Carver was a kind old officer who could debate heatedly with the youngest of them, and could fight even more fiercely. Margret grew rather fond of him during the course of the discussion. He really seemed to know what he was talking about and always had a ready answer for anything— the fact that he always sided with her in a debate did not hurt her opinion of him either.

Major Carver was just asking for input on a business venture in India, when one of the younger officers piped up. "Strewth, Major, sah! India? What the devil for? There's perfectly fine, cheap land in Africa! Why pay a pretty-penny for land that's mediocre, when you can get rich land that doesn't empty all your pockets?"

"Hear, hear, Rogers, old lad! I've got some land there myself, and you're quite right! The way you describe it sounds like it's straight from the blinking advertisement!"

"Er, ha-ha, not quite, old boy."

Major Carver smiled. "Say whatever you like, gentlemen, but I mean to buy land in India, and I will. I've got my reasons."

It was Margret's turn to speak up. "Rather. Don't any you of read the newspapers? That land in Africa won't be any good soon."

"What?"

"I say! Really?"

"Good Heavens! Are you quite sure?"

She nodded. "I won't go explaining it to you, what with all the facts and such, I don't want to get anything wrong. But isn't that why you don't want to buy land in Africa, Major Carver?"

He beamed at her. "Quite right, m'dear!"

Margret smiled back. "Well, I quite agree that India is definitely the better alternative. It's an extremely profitable land now that we've established trading routes within it. Where exactly in India do you plan on buying your land?" He told her and her smile slipped. "Oh, I see. Well, I hope you don't think me rude or impertinent, but I'm not quite sure that's the best place for land."

Major Carver never stopped smiling kindly; in fact, his smile may have broadened a bit. "Oh and why is that m'dear?"

"Well," she bit her lip and looked around. "If I had an atlas I might be able to explain it better."

One of the younger officers produced a giant tome from a lonely chair in the corner. "I say, what luck! Here's a blinking atlas right here!"

Margret recognized it as the one she had been comparing her own to, not three days ago, but she wisely said nothing, instead thanking the gentleman. "Alright, here we are. This is a good map of India, especially since it features our trading outpost, here. Now, you want to buy land over here, to the west, correct? Well, you see the emperor may have given us permission to trade, but right where you want to buy land is a little population that did not agree with their emperor that it would be a good idea to let us in. Now, if you want to hire natives to help work the land, your going to have a very few who will be willing to work for an Englishman. I suggest, and I hope it isn't presumptuous of me, that if you buy land here, closer to the trading outpost, you'll find willing workers, and you'll never have to worry about waiting for supplies to arrive, because the British East India Company is your next-door neighbor. And, in my opinion the land seems more fertile here, rather than to the west."

The entire party was quiet, and Margret rather feared that she had been too bold, when Major Carver cried out. "By jove! She's right! Good Heavens, I can't believe I had forgotten about that article in the paper a year or so back! I do believe that there was a bit of protest from a few of the natives right in that area! Miss Dashwood, I propose a toast to your brilliant intellect and to my salvation from what might have been a disastrous business venture!"

The other officers all clapped and drained their tea, and Margret tried to keep herself from blushing beet-red, but only succeeded in keeping her color at an attractive pink.

Mary poked her head around the library door. "What's all the fuss about, papa?"

Her father took her by the arm and walked her to the group which had gathered around the blushing Margret. "Your dear friend, Miss Dashwood, has been dazzling us with her insight on business ventures in India."

Mary beamed at her friend. "Margret, you dear thing! Have you really? I've always said she was brilliant!"

Margret abstained from covering her face. "Oh, Mary, please don't encourage them. This much praise _cannot_ be good for a human being!"

ooOoo

As Margret lay in bed that night, she reflected on the evenings events with excitement. After everyone was done embarrassing her, Major Carver had taken her aside and asked her if she wanted to go to India with his expedition. He said he could use a fresh mind like hers and it would be a wonderful experience. He would finance her entire trip, taking care of all expenses. She had agreed readily, her heart thrilling at the thought of visiting one of the settings for her fantastic adventures. After she and Mary had said their good nights, the two girls had danced around in their room, celebrating the blessed invitation.

Margret's only hesitation about going was that her mother would not let her go to the wonderful land of India. But she was tired, and such misgivings would have to wait in line after a good night's sleep.

ooOoo

"Do you really think your mother will faint dead away when you tell her?"

Margret thought a moment before throwing the rock at the pond surface. Four skips. "No, but I'm sure she'll come quite close to it."

Mary threw her own rock. Five skips. "She can't object to heavily to your going, can she? It will be wonderful experience."

Margret threw another rock from the pile they had gathered on the bank. Five skips. "If she doesn't think a lady would go to India, even to a colonized area, then I won't be going no matter how wonderful the experience is."

Three skips. "Oh, I see. But haven't other women traveled to the trading-post?"

Six skips. "Yes, but those women are married, and they went with their husbands."

Four skips. "Goodness, keep talking like this and you'll talk yourself out of going, and then you'll never stand a chance against your mother."

"I just wish that being proper would go to _blazes_!" Margret threw her rock as hard as she could. It skipped all the way across the pond and onto the bank, stopping at Sir Merryweather's feet. Ten skips.

"Oh, dear," Mary said.

He walked around the pond, bowing when he reached them. "Good day, Miss Dashwood, Miss Yancey. The weather is impeccable today, is it not?"

The curtsied slightly, and Mary replied for them. "It is indeed, Sir Merryweather."

"Would you ladies like to join me in a walk about this pretty pond?"

Each lady took one of his arms, and they began their stroll.

"What brings you to my father's estate, Sir Merryweather?"

"I felt that it would be rather rude not to call upon my neighbors when our estates are so near each other, Miss Yancey."

Mary and Sir Arthur made wonderfully polite small-talk about things of little or no consequence, while Captain Margret walked along lost in thought and wondering if Sir Merryweather had heard her say "blazes".

After several circuits around the moderately sized pond, Sir Merryweather paused, and asked suddenly, "Miss Yancey, Miss Dashwood, I wonder if you might accept an invitation to dinner to-morrow evening? Your entire party is invited of course."

Mary smiled politely. "Thank you, my father, Miss Dashwood, and I accept, though you may regret extending your invitation to our _entire_ party; we have half a dozen officers staying with us."

Sir Merryweather bowed. "And all welcome to my estate. Thank you, I look forward to to-morrow with anticipation, and I will bid you a good day."

When he had left, Mary and Margret looked at each other. "Did he come all this way _just_ to invite us to dinner?"

Mary grinned slyly at Margret. "He came all this way to invite _you_ to dinner."

"Oh, please don't talk so; the very idea gives me a headache."

ooOoo

Nothing would please the owner of the eyes that watched them more than to invite the lovely Margret to a private dinner, and his patience was wearing thin with that odious man Sir Merryweather. But his turn would come soon, as long as he was patient.

He laughed.

Patience?

Yes, he would be patient.

Patient like a groom who waits for his bride.

He would bide his time.

He had all the time in the world.

##################

A/N: okidokey! i'm back, after about two weeks of being sick. sorry i'm so late in updating, but being sick didn't allow me to do anything. ok, so i recently found out i have been spelling Margret's name wrong. apparently it's supposed to be 'Margaret'. sigh. but i'm not gonna change it after eleven chapters. nope, she is now Margret. ok, one more note: Major Leslie Carver! Leslie Carver was the name of my great-grandfather, so i'm honoring him by using his name! love you, great-grandpa in Heaven!


	12. Chapter 12

"I suppose we must dress up for the dinner." Margret mused.

Mary glanced up from untangling her pearl hairnet. "I suppose, though it's not as if it's any different from any other night. After all, we've had to dress up for every dinner while the officers are here."

"True."

But both girls knew it wouldn't be the same. They were dressing for the dinner at Sir Merryweather's estate, and it was quite different from dressing for dinner as they did every night. There was a tingle of apprehension in the air as they selected garments and hair decorations. Mary was thinking of how poor Margret would fare at Sir Merryweather's.

Margret was also thinking of how poor Margret would fare at Sir Merryweather's, except, added to her worries, was what to say, and how not to make a fool of herself. She supposed she had already insulted him enough to last a lifetime, and that was not the path she wanted to continue down. After all, he had saved Mary's life, and had been quite gracious about it. (The truth is, however, much less chivalrous: Sir Arthur was so stunned at himself and his knight-in-shining-armor-rescue, that he couldn't think of anything to say, and as such, hadn't been able to claim to the girls his part in the rescue).

Speaking of Sir Arthur, he was feeling the same nervousness and apprehension as Margret, except he was able to voice them to his man-servant as he was dressed. "You don't think she'll mention my accidental rescue will you? Grateful maidens are apt to gush about such things, though I'd rather keep it private."

His man-servant never answered, of course, but he never expected him to.

"I do hope Miss Yancey's father won't go on about it either. Fathers are almost as bad as grateful maidens when it comes to gushing, except you can't get by with a simple, 'You're welcome'."

His man-servant presented him with two dinner jackets and that set him off again.

"I wonder what she'll be wearing. I suppose she'd think it a great lark if she arrived in a simple gown or an elaborate one, but I doubt she'd go through with such a thing. She's too ladylike. Got too many rules of decorum drilled into her, I suppose."

He grimaced. "Lord, society ruins the minds of so many brilliant young ladies, but despite all her training, Miss Dashwood seems to have retained her wit. She's not dull like all the other powdered young women nowadays. Not that Miss Yancey isn't smart, or pretty. I'm just saying most girls are dull, boring, and lifeless, while Miss Dashwood has so much wit, you could turn her into a philosopher. You know what I'm talking about, don't you, Jackson?"

Mr. Jackson was not sure he did know, but he didn't think it was his place to agree or disagree with his master, and so, let him rattle on until the dinner. Margret would have been surprised and bored out of her wonderful wits if she had heard Sir Arthur carry on the way he did. There seemed to be no end to his nervous prattling and Mr. Jackson was quite relieved when the servant announced that his guests had arrived.

Both Captain Margret and Sir Arthur were almost jittery with nerves when the dinner guests were shown into the formal dining room. Margret occupied herself with memorizing her surroundings, while Sir Merryweather was helplessly left to entertain his other guests.

There was a crystal chandelier dangling high above their heads, and what seemed to be almost matching crystal table-ware. Both were beautiful and reflected the happy glow of the candles in a sparkling dazzle. The table cloth was completely white, with not a stain to be seen, and of the finest linen possible, and the napkins were in the same impeccable condition. All the silverware was polished so that you could see your face if you just happened to glance at the shiny surface of your spoon. The table wine was being poured by expressionless footmen and their twins in the background stood to attention, prepared to serve the courses at any moment.

In a word, everything was: Perfect.

_Too_ perfect for Margret's tastes.

Where was the disorder?

The chaos that comes with hosting a dinner party…?

At any rate, the meal was lovely, the conversation polite, and both Margret and Sir Merryweather managed to be civil and did _not_ make fools of themselves. Everyone adjourned to the large parlor, where coffee and tea were served. Margret had never encountered coffee before, and, on learning that it was from faraway places, instantly took a liking to it. It was rich and dark, and Margret discovered that she liked hers with minimal cream and very little sugar. She was the only one besides Sir Merryweather to take it that way, and it was rather alarming to find that they shared something in common— for both of them.

Immediately after this disconcerting discovery, and remembering that coffee production relied heavily on slave labor, Miss Dashwood promptly asked for a cup of tea. (I should mention that tea production also relies heavily on slave labor, but the English had become so accustomed to their daily "cuppa" without giving it another political thought, that this fact was often "forgotten").

The refreshment had a calming effect on her, that was only broken when Sir Merryweather "cornered" her for polite conversation. "Miss, Dashwood, how are your family?"

"All well, I suppose, though we do not see much of Elinor and Marianne now that they're married. My mother is in good health, I know for sure. I'm quite under the impression that getting me out from under her toes has put her in a happy disposition nowadays, or, so I gather from her letters."

"And your family friend, Mrs. Jennings, I believe it was?"

"I'm sure she and my mother are enjoying themselves in London without having to look after me all the time. Goodness knows they need a rest from me every once in a while."

"Wonderful, wonderful."

There was an awkward pause, before Sir Merryweather made another attempt. "The weather has been pleasantly warm lately."

"Yes, it's perfect for the seaside. I imagine it's a bit more disagreeable in the winter, with its ocean wind."

"Yes, I imagine so."

Margret looked at him in surprise. "Well, don't you know? I would think you would, what with your estate being rather close to the ocean."

He looked uncomfortable. "Well, you see, I'm not here all that much in the winter. I have, er, another estate, closer inland that I stay at in the winter and shoot at in the fall."

"Oh, I see."

Margret surprised them both by picking up the polite conversation and running with it. "Do you have any close family, Sir Merryweather?"

"Well, my parents passed away when I was rather young, and I don't have any siblings, but I do have a plentiful supply of cousins, second cousins, third cousins and great-aunts."

"It must be marvelous having all that family. I wish I had a great-aunt. All I've got is step-sister-in-law, and she's a bit of a piece of work. Oh, well, Mrs. Jennings is like a great-aunt, Colonel Brandon and Edward make good brothers-in-law, and I suppose Sir John is like a jolly old uncle."

"Sir John?"

Margret nodded happily. "He let us rent the cottage back when we couldn't afford anything else. He's very generous, and he and his mother—that's Mrs. Jennings— are wonderful people to talk to."

"You lived in a _cottage_?"

The shock in his voice was apparent, and Captain Margret narrowed her eyes in disapproval. "And still do. It's very cozy and beautiful, and it's not as if we needed anything more, with only mother and me at home."

"Oh, yes, of course. Believe me, I meant no offense."

"I know you didn't. What was it you said about not conversing easily with strangers? Well, I am no stranger, and yet you seem to have unintentionally blundered. What would you think if, upon seeing that you live here in this large estate all on your own, I expressed the same repulsion you have on finding that I live in a cottage? Hardly polite conversation, is it?"

"No, I suppose not."

Captain Margret had not been expecting him to agree with her, but was pleasantly surprised by it. The conversation went smoothly from then on, and each of the two discovered new things about the other. I will not go too deeply into the contents of their conversation, but I suppose I can reveal one or two things.

Margret was wonderfully surprised to find that Sir Merryweather had gotten an honorable discharge from the militia _with_ a medal, enjoyed horseback riding (along with puff-pastries), and could paint passably. Sir Merryweather was amazed to find that, along with riding, fencing, camping outdoors, fishing, swimming, diving, and training dogs, Margret also knew how to and enjoyed shooting a bow and arrow, and playing cricket. She had an incredible mind, as he already knew, and he had a fairly tolerable sense of philosophy, as she soon found out.

At any rate, it went well, and Margret left with the feeling that he wasn't as bad as he seemed, though he _did_ have his faults, and Sir Arthur was left with the feeling that she was everything he had imagined and more. Neither one felt as if they had been cheated out of a lovely dinner at home, both were quite content, and only slightly unsettled at the fast pace of their relationship. I hope the general idea of cordial behavior is apparent to the reader, for that was exactly the nature of their growing friendship— no more, no less; in the way you might behave with someone you're not acquainted with, but mildly want to get to know better.

Margret went to bed that night thinking of what Sir Merryweather might do if he suddenly found himself riding bareback on a horse, as she often secretly loved to do.

Sir Merryweather went to bed thinking of Miss Dashwood playing cricket, and I will not hesitate to add that he also imagined her swimming, and that he was blushing fairly hard into the dark as he did so.

Mary went to bed thinking of how well Margret and Sir Merryweather had seemed to be getting on, and hoped that, perhaps, her accident and rescue might have been the cause.

ooOoo

When _he_ went to bed, he imagined his beautiful Margret as the goddess he revered her to be. Her image was clad in a toga, such as the ancient Grecian women wore, and her feet were bare, with anklets dangling from them.

Obviously Margret was not a goddess, but that was the way he imagined her.

Obviously she would never wear such things, but that was the way she appeared to him.

_Obviously_ he had an overactive imagination.

But, they do say if it can be imagined, it can be done.

And, even if it killed him, he would make sure it was.


	13. Chapter 13

Mary and Margret trailed along the path mournfully. Margret was in a slightly happier mood, as she was thinking of her journey in a week. She had written her mother, gaining permission to accompany the voyage to India, after several back and forth letters. Her mother had insisted, however, that she acquire a few more items for her trunk, which had been ordered and were waiting for her in London. Margret smiled wryly at her friend. "I can't believe we're leaving this lovely place tomorrow. It seems like we only arrived yesterday! Sometimes I wish I could stay here forever."

Mary smiled back. "And then you remember your lovely holiday coming up, and you're glad you are."

"It's not exactly a _lovely holiday_, Mary. India is rather hot and dry, with lots of sand that can get in your shoes."

"It's also exotic and a paradise fit for kings! Margret— don't try to convince yourself it's going to be uncomfortable and a disaster, because you know you'll love every minute of it."

"I'll write you every week, and expect an answer back every week."

Mary lifted her eyes up in mock derision. "Well, I don't see as I'll have time! I'll be attending lots of balls, and going to dinner parties, and having so much _fun_, I don't think I'll remember!" She smirked. "Honestly, I wish I could go with you. How ever will I be able to manage all the young men who want to know where you are?"

Margret swatted at her playfully, grinning. "No one will miss me, and you know it. They'll all be clamoring for your hand-in-marriage and forgetting all about me. And then one day some little old matron will wake up from her punch cup and pipe up, 'Where's that strange young woman who made her debut last spring? She was an odd one!' and no one will be able to remember who she's talking about!"

"Hmm, you're probably right."

"You're not supposed to agree with me, silly!"

The two girls giggled, but stopped abruptly when they saw the figure that was coming down the lane towards them. "Good heavens, it's Sir Merryweather!"

"You don't think he's going to invite us to another dinner, do you? It would be the third time, but I really don't see how we could manage to attend. After all, we have to pack tonight, and we'll be gone tomorrow."

Thankfully, Sir Arthur had no intention of inviting them again, however much he longed to. It was a mere coincidence that they happened to be walking the same lane, and he was very much surprised to see them. They conversed politely before bidding each other good day, as it's not genteel to detain someone for too long when their on a walk, and they were going in opposite directions.

Margret bit her lip as the distance between their backs and his grew. She finally gave up. "Oh, it's no use! Mary, keep walking, I'll rejoin you in a moment.

Mary watched her friend in amazement as she ran off after Sir Merryweather as best she could in a long skirt. She shook her head in wonder, a small smile playing about her lips. To her, it seemed it was about time this happened.

"Sir Merryweather, wait a moment!" Margret called out to him, knowing full well that it isn't ladylike to shout.

He turned in surprise as she rushed up. "Miss Dashwood, is something the matter? Is Miss Yancey ill or injured?"

"No, no," She inhaled sharply to catch her breath. "No, nothing like that. I'm sorry if I alarmed you, it's just... I feel I must speak with you."

"About what, dear lady?"

She practically bit a hole through her lovely lips. "It may seem a bit awkward— and I don't blame you if you find it odd of me for telling you this— but, I'm…" She gathered up her courage and let it out in a rush. "I'm-leaving-in-a-week-for-India-and-I-feel-as-if-you-should-know."

He looked at her in puzzlement. "I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I didn't catch that."

"I'm leaving for India in a week, on the _Earl of Mansfield II_, and, well, I felt as if I should tell you."

Sir Merryweather stared at her, before not quite regaining his composure. "Oh, I— I see. Yes, well, how wonderful. Congratulations, and bon voyage, and all that." He paused before asking slowly, "Miss Dashwood, I hope you don't mind my curiosity, but, why did you feel I should be privy to this information?"

Margret looked away. "Well, even though we've only known each other for a short time, and most of it I was rather rude to you, it seems as if I've known you for quite a while. I've gotten to know you, I've eaten at your table, you saved a dear friend's life, and, quite frankly, my opinion of you has… increased tremendously. I can hardly believe I thought so poorly of you the first few times we encountered each other. I was completely out of line when I insulted you so terribly and made fun of you in front of everyone, and I even accused you of writing an appalling letter you never even wrote! I hope you'll forgive me when I say I'm finding myself growing rather fond of you, now. Goodness knows, I can't forgive myself."

Sir Merryweather sighed. "Margr— I mean, Miss Dashwood, I am also to blame. I've been rather odious, perhaps even proud, and I apologize for my own ill behavior. The truth is, I did write a letter to you expressing some feelings I dare not speak aloud. I assume you thought it was long and hideous, and, again, I apologize for the sentiments that you found so repulsive. Immediately after you confronted me about it, I vowed I would never again write you a letter, since communication at all seemed disgraceful to you."

Captain Margret laughed, startling him. "Oh, dear! Sir Merryweather, I do believe we're not speaking of the same letter! Oh, good heavens, forgive me! I'm sorry for laughing, but, oh, good gracious, no! Don't look at me! The look on your face shall finish me off!"

Sir Arthur was quite confused. "I don't understand. We're talking of the letter that I wrote."

She managed to get a hold of herself. "Oh, dear, I almost did myself a mischief. Sorry, but the letter I accused you of writing was actually written by a mysterious stranger, and it was rather short— only three letters." She proceeded to explain the logic behind her deduction, and at the conclusion, she chanced a query. "But, what letter did _you_ speak of?"

He turned as red as a gentleman can without looking unseemly. "Nothing of consequence as it seems you did not receive it. Don't worry about it."

Margret glanced behind her and gave a start. "Oh, dear, Mary seems to have left me behind. Do excuse me, but I must run." She nodded wryly. "Literally."

They bid each other a hasty farewell, and Captain Margret took off running, but at the top of a small hill, she stopped, looked back, and shouted to him, "I don't mind if you break your promise! You can write to me in India!"

She didn't wait for his reply, instead continuing her fast-paced run to catch up with Mary, holding her skirts up a little higher than acceptable.

Sir Merryweather went home with a pleasant smile.

ooOoo

"She's beautiful," Captain Margret breathed.

They were in the port, looking at the _Earl of Mansfield II_ in awe. The hustle and bustle about them didn't phase her one bit, but her mother seemed to be getting rather worried about the rough company around them. "Margret, dear, I really think we should get to your lodgings."

Margret managed to tear herself away from the sight and sound of crews loading ships, unloading cargo, and the general hubbub of activity that was so exciting to her. They walked the short distance to the inn where she would be staying. It was called the Galloping Horse, and considered a very fine establishment for the district as they reserved the right to refuse ruffians. Her mother still fretted slightly after they got her settles, and even after the manager, Mr. Hughes, assured her he would make sure no harm would befall her daughter while she stayed at his inn.

Margret helped her mother into the carriage that would take her back to Mrs. Jennings' house. "Don't worry about me, mother. It's only for one night, and we leave in the morning."

Mrs. Dashwood clasped her hand. "Do be careful, dear. Don't do anything reckless, don't talk to any shady characters, and for goodness sakes, make sure you always wear the proper garments."

"I'll be fine, mother!"

"And make sure you get enough to eat!"

"Mother!"

"And enough sleep!"

Captain Margret made to close the door. "If you don't go right this minute and stop worrying about me, I'll do all of the things you told me not to, and won't do all the things you told me to!"

Mrs. Dashwood patted down a few wisps on her daughter's head. "I'm going to miss you, dear. I'm so sorry I won't be able to see you off."

Margret smiled, despite herself. "If you did, you'd miss going to the theatre, and Mrs. Jennings has already gotten you tickets. I want you to go to that theatre, enjoy yourself, and don't worry about me, alright?"

"Goodbye, Margret."

Margret felt the breath hugged out of her, but she returned the embrace, whispering, "Goodbye, mother. I'll miss you too."

Her mother closed the carriage door, and through the window, Margret saw her mother dab her eyes with a handkerchief. As the carriage rolled away, she waved furiously at its receding figure, not caring how unladylike it was. When it was out of sight, she chanced walking back to the port to gaze at the _Earl_ again.

Major Leslie had given her all the details about the vessel, and she had learnt them by heart. Her total length, including the bowsprit, was fifty-eight and a half meters; the beam eleven meters; the sail area one thousand, nine hundred square meters; the draughth at the stern was five and a quarter meters, and at the bow, four and three-quarter meters. She was also armed with forty guns.

Captain Margret felt a quiver of delight at the thought of sailing on her, and decided to go to bed early so she could get up all the earlier. That decided, she trekked back to the inn and ate an early supper. It was wonderful, with fowl and potatoes, and when Mr. Hughes asked if she had enjoyed it, he was met with a delighted affirmative.

Though dusk had only just fallen, Margret went up to her room immediately after the meal. She checked and double-checked her trunk, making sure she had all the necessary items and that everything was in order.

After attempting to read a book, without much success, she sat on her bed and immediately began thinking of her mother, and how she was now completely, and slightly frighteningly, on her own. As soon as this thought entered her head, she allowed the pent up stress and home-sickness she had been bottling up the entire time to flow swiftly and freely in the form of tears.

This was the second time she had cried since her debut, and it occurred to her that perhaps tears aren't silly, but a form of private expression of emotion. Not every person who allows a tear or two to escape is a silly, over-dramatic female, and this realization matured her in a way months in India couldn't do.

Of course, a few tears weren't going to keep her from having her adventure, and, so, she dried her eyes, told herself to keep her chin up, and promptly went to bed.

ooOoo

The stage was set.

The girl in place.

Everything was perfect.

And, now…

It was time to execute _The Plan_.


	14. Chapter 14

Sir Arthur watched the pond go by with an intense gaze, lost in his memories. It felt like an eternity since he had first seen the girl he had mistaken for a fae dancing on a stump in the middle of the pond. So much had transgressed since then. He had never thought that he would see her again, and yet, they had met at her début, and were now— he hoped— on friendly terms, even after a wintery spell earlier that summer. She was as amazing as he had imagined her that first time he had seen her, with her soaked dress and sea boots lying on the bank.

His only disappointment was that she was on her way to India, and their only means of communication was by letter. India was so far away, letters would be few and far between. Sir Arthur wondered when she would return. A few months? A year? _Several_ years? He certainly hoped not. He had it in his mind to ask her to marry him, and he didn't have enough patience to wait too long.

The carriage hit a bump in the country road, jolting him back reality. They were nearing his great-aunt's estate, and he could see the mansion from their position on a hill. As they went down the slope, however, it disappeared from sight, and he went back to his musings.

I must note one thing, dear reader. Sir Arthur was not in the habit of giving many moments to deep thought before he met Margret, or, as we have seen, when he first _saw_ Margret. After that accidental encounter, his fate was sealed. He would be doomed to that profound and wonderful thing called contemplation, and so deep were these contemplations that they sometimes dipped into philosophy, and when he was in a moody disposition, they turned into brooding. I can quite assuredly say that he was bettered by this continuing experience. The mind does not like to be idle, no matter how hard it tries to trick you into lazy thought. It must think; it must ponder; it must mull over everything it comes across, and when it doesn't, it turns into a useless organ that just happens to be telling the human body to automatically do things. Nothing is worse than a perfectly good brain going to waste, and I must admit, Sir Arthur's was certainly heading in that direction before he met Margret. He did not realize any of this, of course, but, nevertheless, it was happening.

He was becoming intellectual.

All his years of study and private tutors were finally being put to another use besides book-keeping, and it did him a wonderful good.

His mind was never idle these days.

Before he knew it, the carriage had pulled up in front of the mansion, and his dear great-aunt was coming to greet him.

Great-aunts are wonderful, darling old things, unless they're crotchety — and then they're dreadful old hags who tell you to sit up straight and talk louder, for they can't hear a thing from all their bellowing. Sir Merryweather's great-aunt was of the gentler genus. She was a sweet old dear who loved visits, because she didn't go out in society anymore. Sir Arthur visited her every chance he had, and, perhaps a bit more than he should have. He had a particular weakness for her cook's special tea-cakes, and, as she knew of this, she served them as often as possible whenever he came.

With her wispy white hair blowing in the breeze, she embraced him warmly. "Arthur! Oh, how I missed you! You haven't been to see me since the spring!"

"You're quite right, Aunt Helen. It's been much too long."

"Come inside and have some tea!" she said, really meaning, "Come inside and have some tea-_cakes_!"

He gently took her arm and escorted her back into the house, which he knew by heart. The drawing-room, where they had tea-cakes, was down the entrance hall a bit, and to the left. The dining room was down the great hall a bit more, and to the right. There were footmen and the butler on duty, standing at their various posts. Here and there, maids scurried in the background, taking care of their tasks. He also knew there were several gardeners to tend the grounds, which, in his humble opinion, were very well kept. Whatever his great-aunt was paying them, he suggested she pay a bit more.

The drawing-room was tastefully decorated, not like some drawing-rooms that beg for attention by being gaudy and bold. The walls were a powder-puff blue, with cream colored crown-molding and the loveliest border art. The furniture had a distinct style of simple elegance, and all the chairs and couches were extremely comfortable since Great-aunt Helen's back gave her a bit of trouble every now and then. It was one of Sir Arthur's favorite rooms. It was where his great-aunt had reinforced the importance of manners in a kind, loving way, by giving little reminders to sit up straight and not to put his finger in his nose.

Tea was set out immediately, though, of course, Arthur was a bit more interested in the cakes than the actual tea. Aunt Helen looked on in her quiet, beaming way, noting that something was different about her great-nephew. It's only those special people that can note such things, and she was one of them. Nothing ever slipped past her, even if it was concealed.

As Arthur forked the first bite of his third cake into his mouth and reached to put another on his plate, Aunt Helen rapped his knuckles with her own. "Now, Arthur, you should really save room for dinner. Besides, you should stop stuffing your face and tell me about this young lady of yours."

Sir Arthur choked on his mouthful of tea-cake. He frantically grabbed his teacup and gulped down the liquid to unclog his throat. Aunt Helen looked on in dry amusement. "How interesting."

Arthur coughed into his napkin. "How did you know?"

She refrained from rolling her eyes, but only just. "By now I would think you'd know better. You can't keep any secrets from me, Arthur."

"Well, you might've waited till I was finished to give me such a start."

"Dear, the way you eat those tea-cakes you would never have been finished. Lord knows where you put it all; you don't gain any weight."

Sir Arthur squirmed in embarrassment.

Aunt Helen raised an eyebrow. "Now, are you going to tell me about this young lady, or not?"

He sighed. "I guess I have to." He explained everything that had happened since his last visit, deciding not to leave anything out. He finally concluded, saying, "She is the most amazing woman I have ever met. And," he added. "I'm going to ask her to marry me."

His great-aunt nodded in approval. "Good. Girls like that don't spring up from the ground like carrots. You have to snatch her up before the other men get interested enough to get there first."

"You make her sound like a piece of meat."

"Nevertheless, it's true. If you don't ask her first, someone else will." She paused, chuckling to herself. "_Harder to charm than a snake from India_, oh my. She really has such wit."

Sir Arthur smiled. "I'm pleased that you think so highly of her. Will you allow me to invite her here to meet you?"

"Well, I should be very disappointed if you didn't. When exactly does she return from India?"

He looked uncomfortable for a moment. "I… don't know. I didn't ask."

Aunt Helen sighed. "Arthur, you know I love you, I really do. But sometimes you can be a tremendous pudden-head."

"I know."

"Well, at least you can write to her and ask. It's a good sign that she gave you permission."

He blanched. "Oh, merciful heavens. I didn't get an address."

She stood, making for the door. "Come on, let's go."

"Go where?"

"I'm throwing you out."

He rose quickly. "Just because I didn't get her address?"

"Yes."

"But I can just ask her friend Miss Yancey for it!"

Aunt Helen went back to her chair. "Very well, you don't have to leave. But, if you botch this relationship with Miss Dashwood, I swear, I'll kill you— even though you're my favorite great-nephew."

"I'm your only great-nephew."

"All the more reason not to give me reason to kill you. I would miss you greatly, and miss _her_ even more."

Sir Arthur clasped her hands seriously. "Don't worry— I promise I won't. I will never let her get away."

"You make her sound like wild game."

"You made her sound like a piece of meat."

"That's another matter. It's alright for me, but not for you."

He sighed. "Never mind. May I go back to my tea-cakes now?"

"No."

"But I've told you all about Margre— Miss Dashwood."

"You'll spoil your dinner. Go up and unpack your trunk. Dinner will be ready at the same time as always. Amuse yourself till then."

He was about to exit, when he paused, glancing back mournfully. "But I'd much rather spend time with you."

"_Ha_!" Aunt Helen crossed her arms. "You'd much rather spend time with these tea-cakes, is what you mean." Her expression softened. "Go on, and I'll send a few up to your room."

ooOoo

Dear reader, I must point out a very important fact: The day Sir Merryweather arrived at his great-aunt's estate was the very same day that Margret said farewell to her mother and lodged at the inn. This is very important, and I want you to remember it as we move along.

The next few days were wonderful, filled with wonderful conversation with Aunt Helen, and lovely tea-cakes. Aunt Helen was very excited about bringing Margret into the family, and made various predictions about the couple's future. Sir Arthur frequently reminded her that Miss Dashwood hadn't accepted yet, but, secretly, he enjoyed listening to her talk about the wonderful marriage ahead.

One bright and early morning, as they were taking breakfast together, a footman brought the paper in, graced by a small flower. Aunt Helen thanked him, exclaiming over the beautiful flower. "Oh, how lovely! It has a wonderful fragrance too. How thoughtful of you, Richard!"

Sir Arthur was buttering a scone and not quite paying attention. "Anything interesting in the paper today?"

"Well, there's an odd bit about a politician drenched in scandal… Hmm, how unfortunate. Says here that some sort of ship sank a few days ago, _Duke,_ or something like that. I've already turned the page and I can't remember, how silly! Oh, and here's something about Cambridge—."

Sir Arthur, who, as I said before, wasn't quite listening, interrupted. "Do you think Margre— I mean, Miss Dashwood won't accept my proposal because people might think she's marrying for my money?"

Aunt Helen barely glanced up. "Well, she doesn't seem the type to care what other people think. But you may have a point. She may also be as proud as you are and won't want to be thought of that way. I know I wouldn't."

"Yes, but you don't suppose people will talk and perhaps ruin—." He stopped. "Aunt Helen, did you say a ship _sank_?"

"Yes, I believe I did."

"What was the name of the vessel?"

She turned a few pages. "Some title or other… Ah! Here it is! It was called the _Earl of Mansfield II_. Why do you ask?"

Arthur had turned as white as a sheet, and his eyes took on a hollow and glassy look. "Dear God… Margret was on that ship."

Aunt Helen gave a start. "What?"

His voice was shaky. "She told me, before she left, that she was to… that she was to sail on the _Earl of Mansfield II_."

She sat back in her chair. "Heaven help us…"

"What else did the report say?"

His great-aunt could not meet his gaze.

"There were no survivors."


	15. Chapter 15

The next few days went by in a jumbled flash. Nothing seemed real to Arthur. Every now and then, he almost forgot that Margret was dead, but he always remembered himself before he lapsed into thinking about what might have been.

When he had left his great-aunt's estate for London, she had worried that he would go mad with grief, such was his apparent sorrow. Upon reaching London, he searched for any sort of tidbit or clue about the _Earl_'s sinking, but information was hard to come by. Still, he stuck with it, hoping that he would be able to save both Margret's memory and his sanity by giving himself something to occupy his time.

Among the few remnants that were salvaged from the ship was a waterlogged carpetbag with the initials M.D. engrave on the metal clasp. Sir Arthur thoroughly checked the list of passengers.

There had been only one person aboard with those initials.

He decided to leave the carpetbag to be retrieved by someone else. Being only a friend, he did not feel qualified to claim a personal belonging.

While he was searching for information around the port, he noticed a woman who frequented the place almost as often as he did. She always wore black, with a dark veil pinned to her hat, always covering her face. A handkerchief was often seen reaching up under the veil to dab wet eyes. The woman was one day joined by two women, both with their husbands, who insisted gently— as far as he was able to hear— that she return to "the house". He wondered who she was, where she came from, and whom had she lost. A son? A husband? Another poor soul who lost someone close to their heart.

He learned very little, but the tidbits he did pick up took him quite a while to gather. Everything seemed a mess after the disaster. The _Earl_ had been a passenger ship, but it had also been carrying supplies to be taken to colonies in India. When the vessel had been checked before the voyage, the captain had reported everything to be sound and secure, a fact that had been verified by several deckhands on duty.

Sir Arthur pondered painstakingly why the presumed safe ship had sunk in the middle of the ocean. Because of his distraught state, it did not occur to him until a few days later that the ship might have struck a hidden reef, or an underwater rock face, smashing a hole in the ship's hull. Purely an accident, but a tragic one indeed.

Fate is cruel at times. I dare not elaborate.

The captain had gone down with his ship faithfully, along with countless other lives. Arthur read in a newspaper that several businessmen, whose cargo had been on the vessel, were demanding retribution from the shipping company, saying that the ship had really not been suitable for the journey; and not caring about any of the _human beings_ who had gone down along with their precious cargo. Sir Arthur was outraged, along with many other citizens.

To err may be human, but to be unsympathetic is monstrous. These men did not deserve the title of _homo sapiens_.

Did we not leave the age of barbarians behind us hundreds of years ago?

I will speak no further on those heartless business-"men" who cared more for money than man, lest I go into a deep monologue— for there is much that could be said.

Sir Arthur inspected the inn that Margret had been staying at, and the manager told him that the young lady had checked out and hired someone to take her trunk to the dock to be loaded. Her carpetbag had never left her side, and the manager reassured Sir Arthur she had walked the short distance to the port with no trouble.

With each slow, small piece, the puzzle that wasn't a puzzle was slowly coming together. He felt as if he were reading a book about a tragic story, and when he woke up and realized it was real, it still felt like a dream— or, rather, a nightmare in which he was trapped.

The manager stopped him before he left, handing him a small slip of paper. "Here, I don't rightly know what it is. A maid found it in the room when she was cleaning it, thought it was about something important. I suppose it's just an address of some kind."

Sir Arthur glanced at it distractedly. It read _Mr. Gadow's Bookshop,_ with a scribbled address underneath. "Ah, yes, thank you, sir. Much obliged." He did not know what it meant, and it didn't seem like it would help him much, so he thanked the manager and stuffed the wrinkled piece of paper in his pocket.

The days were having their wear on him, and he decided to retire at the inn he was staying at. It was much nicer then the _Galloping Horse_, but Sir Arthur did not notice that there was anything finer about this inn than the one he had just left. His only thoughts were of Margret.

When he awoke early the next morning, he sat in his room brooding, and when he finally came out of his reverie, it was past noon. One sign of life within him was that he was deeply disturbed about this utter waste of time, and decided to never do such a thing again. Time was precious, as Margret's death had illustrated.

Days passed, but finding any more information was difficult. Not much was known about any of the circumstances, and less was divulged. Sir Arthur remembered Miss Yancey after an entire week of walking around in a restless daze. It occurred to him to call on her and extend his condolences, but he didn't know her address. He asked an officer he happened upon, who told him the address only after receiving payment.

When he knocked on the front door, the maid almost didn't admit him, but he insisted she give his name to the young lady of the house. She came back a few minutes later with a begrudging look on her face, saying, "This way, sir."

The house was beautiful, obviously expensively decorated. The drawing room was as formal and stiff as a starched collar— not at all like his great-aunt's comfortable drawing room. Mary was sitting when he entered, but she rose upon seeing him. Her eyes were red, though she tried to hide it by smiling, and she was wearing black mourning clothes. "Would you like some tea, Sir Merryweather?"

"No, thank you, Miss Yancey. I'm terribly sorry for intruding, but I wanted to express my deepest regrets at Marg— Miss Dashwood's passing. I know you were close to her, and her loss must be incredibly hard on you."

"It seems you've noticed my apparent lack of hiding technique. It has indeed been hard accepting her death. It's difficult to believe that someone so alive could be gone so quickly."

Sir Arthur nodded slowly. "I understand what you mean. Sometimes I forget she's even gone."

"Exactly." She paused, biting her lip. "Sir Merryweather, I hope you don't think I'm intruding upon your privacy, but I must know. Were you and Margret in… any sort of romantic relationship? She didn't say anything about such a thing, but then again, I could see reason in her being discreet."

"Unfortunately, we were not. I greatly admired her, though, and… in fact, I loved her, I was going to ask her to marry me when she returned from India. And now… I'm afraid it's too late."

His confession was uncharacteristic, as he never revealed any deep emotion to anyone who was not close, and Mary noticed this and appreciated the gravity of this. "I'm so sorry, Sir Merryweather. I know for a fact she was growing rapidly fond of you, towards… the end, I suppose we must call it."

"She was?"

Mary nodded, smiling sadly. "After knowing you for quite a while, I'm fairly certain she would have accepted your proposal if she had ever returned."

They were both quiet, before Sir Arthur broke the silence. "I think my dearest memory of her was the first night of her debut, when she fainted. It was as if her fainting spell revealed that she really was human and not an angel, as I had originally thought. She must have been so irritated to open her eyes and see _me_ of all people standing over her."

Mary laughed, the first time she had done so in a while. "You won't believe this, but, she later told me she orchestrated the whole thing!"

He stared at her. "She what?"

"Margret was so desperate to leave that she pretended to faint so her mother would take her home. It was quite brilliant, considering her elder sister had had such an accident once— though, her sister's was real, of course. Both her mother and Mrs. Jennings believed her ill, and even let her stay home from a ball the next night. But instead of staying in the house, she dressed herself as a poor girl and went into Drury Lane unaccompanied."

Sir Merryweather started. "That was terribly reckless of her. What if she had been harmed?"

"Oh, but she wasn't! In fact, she told me she gave money to street urchins and defeated a drunken rabble as well. Margret knew perfectly well how to take care of herself."

"She certainly did."

Mary smiled through unshed tears. "She was so kind… She befriended me at a gathering where no one else would. All the other young women were too busy trying to catch husbands to socialize with someone as plain as me, but she joined me in my pitiful little corner, well away from all the young men. And, suddenly, it was as if my pitiful little corner wasn't so small and sad. She brought sunshine where there was gloomy rain, and I would never have the confidence I do today if I hadn't met her."

Sir Arthur sighed. "Miss Dashwood changed everyone she met. I was proud and odious when I first met her; puffed up on my own self-importance. But she humbled me in ways I could never imagine. It was difficult to change from a lifetime of pride, but it was because of her that I'm no longer as prideful as I once was."

"Margret noticed the change in you, but I'm not sure she quite realized it was because of her."

They had said all that they could say, and there was a silence in the room— not an awkward kind of silence, but a contented one.

Finally, Sir Arthur bid Miss Yancey good-day, and as he was walking out, she stopped him. "You know, it's all right if you call her Margret. I don't think she'd like to be thought of as just Miss Dashwood by you."

He smiled. "Don't worry; that's not how I think of her."

He stepped out, and the door closed behind him. He breathed deeply, thinking how amazing life was, despite the awful things that happened. It was an interesting thought, and had somehow come into his head from nowhere.

Sometimes the best things have mysterious births.

His train of thought was interrupted by a tremendous crash that came from around a corner. He ran towards the sound and discovered a carriage which had smashed into the pole of a streetlamp. The driver was yelling loudly at no one in particular, complaining about a reckless boy running into the middle of the road, or something of the like. It didn't make sense to Merryweather until he saw a boy run straight past him, bare feet pounding hard to keep up such a fast pace. He called out to the urchin, who was dressed in clothes that were much too big for him and a hat that covered most of his face, but the boy did not stop. If anything, he put on a burst of speed.

Sir Merryweather sighed and rolled his eyes, before giving chase. I should mention that a gentleman never runs, unless it's to a lady's rescue, and several people stared at the two running figures in shock. The boy led him on a merry chase, down side streets and alleyways, trying his best to lose his pursuer, but Sir Arthur never took his eyes off him for a single moment.

The boy looked back at him, or at least, Sir Arthur assumed he did— he couldn't see his eyes— and stumbled, rolling to the ground in a neat tuck. Sir Merryweather reached him, pulling him up swiftly by the collar. "Now, what's this all about? That driver back there is pretty upset about his carriage, you know. The least you could do is apologize to him!"

The boy struggled in his grasp, not looking at him. "Let me go!"

Sir Arthur raised his voice slightly. "Not until you say you're sorry to that driver!"

The boy finally looked up, his voice urgent as he hissed, "_Shh_! Are you crazy? Keep your voice down, for goodness' sakes! I can't be found!"

Sir Merryweather stared at him in utter disbelief, his face ashen.

"_It can't be_…!"


	16. Chapter 16

"My God…" he breathed. "Are you a ghost?"

"No, I'm flesh and blood, all right? But in a few minutes I may not be, if we don't get out of here."

"But… where? I mean… how? Why…?"

"I can answer all your questions about myself, Miss Dashwood, and the tragic accident later, but we really need to get off the street. Is there someplace we can talk?"

Sir Arthur was in a state of shock, but he still had the presence of mind to answer. "Yes, yes of course. The inn I'm staying at. Will you join me for supper?"

"Yes, please! I'm absolutely starving!"

"Do you not get proper meals?"

"Not anymore, I don't. Not since I've been on the street."

Sir Merryweather hailed a cab and they ducked inside. "But, why are you on the street?"

"It's not as if I had much choice, now is it? God destined it, so here I am. I'm not one to argue with God, I'll tell you. My only complaint is these awful clothes. They're itchy and too big for me. Found them in the road, so I suspect they were for a much larger person."

"Why are you talking like that?"

"Like what? Oh, I see. You're not used to the street talk, are you? That's the way everyone talks in back alleys. You know, Drury Lane, and all that. You pick it up."

"It's horrid."

The only answer he got was a shrug, and then silence. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Where've you been all this time?"

"Sorry, but I don't trust cab drivers. I don't want to say anything that might be overheard. Actually, I don't trust anyone."

"We're in a closed cab."

"Just leave off and let me be paranoid."

Sir Merryweather was silent.

A sigh was heard, sounding weary and stressed. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Especially not to you. Things have just been… tiring the past few days."

"I understand."

"You will, when we get to the inn."

They rode in an awkward silence until they reached their destination. Sir Arthur paid the driver and they went in. He found a table in the dining room, where they sat in _more_ awkward silence. The food arrived, but it was mostly ignored as Sir Merryweather worked up the nerve to ask, "Why are you still wearing that absurd hat? It doesn't become you at all."

"Oh, habit, I suppose. I'll take it off, if you like."

Off came the hat, and out tumbled the long chestnut hair Sir Merryweather admired so much. It was a bit dirty from lack of washing, but he didn't care. He drank in the sight of its beauty.

Margret smiled. "Now, what do you want to ask me?"

"Ah… ask you?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You wanted to ask me scores of questions. I could see it in your face when we were in the carriage."

"I thought you were dead."

"That's really more of a statement than a question."

"You know what I mean."

She sighed. "Where to begin? Well, I arrived here in London, I said farewell to my mother, and I ate supper and went to bed. We were supposed to board early the next morning."

"Supposed to?"

"That's the tricky part. I remember going to sleep in my room at the inn, but when I woke up, I was in a strange place I'd never seen before."

"A strange place?"

She glared at him. "Are you going to keep interrupting me throughout the entire story? If so, we're going to be here a very long time."

Sir Arthur smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."

"It's all right. I'd be dying to know too, if I were in your position. Well, I woke up in a nightdress, in a very fine room. It was decorated for king, or a queen, I suppose, since it was very feminine. The bed was enormous and it had a huge canopy of lace draped over it, and the most expensively embroidered pillows I have ever seen were lying under my head. Don't look so scandalized, it's all right to talk about the bed since it's part of the story.

"At any rate, the room was beautiful, but the curtains were drawn, making it extremely dark. I was about to leap out of bed and have a nervous breakdown, when this man came in from a door I hadn't noticed. He told me not to be frightened, and I wanted to scoff at him for being an idiot. Of course I wasn't frightened! But I _was_ angry. I demanded to know where I was and what I was doing there, but he avoided my question by asking if I had slept well. I told him to go… well, I told him answer me. All he said was that I was safe. I certainly didn't _feel_ safe. He kept coming closer and closer to the bed, and he finally touched the sheets. I was outraged, and I jumped out of bed, yelling at him to go away or tell me where I was. He tried… cornering me several times, talking nonsense about 'our' wedding and love and that abducting me was the only way— rubbish like that— so I hit him. Fairly hard, actually.

"While he was recovering, I threw open the windows, and saw only fields and moors for miles. I have to admit, it gave me quite a shock. We were nowhere _near_ London. He muttered something about giving me time to think, and he left the way he had come. I tried the door immediately after he was gone, but he had locked it. I contemplated jumping out the window, but it was at least thirty feet from the ground, and there weren't enough sheets to make a rope. I looked around for other exits, but the only two were the window, and the door the strange man had used.

"So I picked the door lock. It wasn't easy, I can tell you that. I've picked lots of locks in my time, but that one was dreadfully tricky. There you go with that scandalized look again! I'm not the only respectable girl who can pick a lock. Well, when I finally got the door open, I found myself in a long hallway. I ran down it as fast as I could, but I had to duck behind things every once in a while, because there were servants coming up and down the hall. I made it out and down a huge main staircase into the great hall, and from there it was easy. I just found some old boots and a long coat, ran out the front door and down the long lane. It felt like the road would go on forever!

"I finally came across a stopped horse and wagon that was carrying something or other in the back, and looked to be heading away from the mysterious estate. The driver was having his dinner behind a tree, so I just slipped under the tarp in the back of the wagon, and stayed quiet. It wasn't long before he came back, and we started off. We must have traveled for hours before he stopped again. By that time it was dark, and he was stopping at an inn. There were too many people about and I wasn't able to sneak out, so I had to sleep under the tarp. What woke me were the horses starting again. We traveled another day or two like that until we got to a city near London— that's where he stopped. I was half-starved by then."

Sir Merryweather couldn't contain himself any longer. "_You mean you hadn't eaten that whole time_?"

Margret shook her head. "I had to find a kitchen that would give me leftovers, and even then it was a meager meal. I found another wagon and tarp that was headed to London, since I had no money to pay for a carriage. The rest is a bit dull, though still dangerous. I arrived in London and survived on the streets until you found me."

"Why didn't you go to your mother?"

"That lunatic stranger kidnapped me for heaven's sake! He knew where I was then, so if I had gone to my mother, he would have known I was _there_. That would put Mother in danger, and me back in his hands. I had to stay low for a while."

"How long were you planning to stay like that?"

She bit her lip. "I don't know. I really don't know."

He sat forward in his chair, trying to capture her gaze. "Did you recognize where the estate was when you escaped?"

She shook her head sadly. "No, it didn't look familiar at all."

"What about when you were in the wagons?"

"I was under the tarp the whole time, and I couldn't see anything. I couldn't tell you what direction we came from, or what roads we took, even if it was to save my life. All I know is, I escaped. That was a relief in itself."

Sir Arthur pushed the food around on his plate. "Did you recognize the man?"

"No, but there was something familiar about him. He had dark hair and he was tall; fairly muscular; he wore the clothes of a gentleman and his speech wasn't coarse or uneducated. I'd never forget his face in a million years. It's haunted my dreams these past few days."

"Margret, I'm so sorry."

She smiled a bit sadly. "No one's called me that in a while."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's nice to hear my name again. The last time I heard it, it was spoke by that horrible stranger. I didn't like the way he said it, either."

He wanted to reach out to her and embrace her, but the crowded room prevented him from doing so. He cleared his throat. "Well, you'd better eat your supper before it gets cold."

Her eyes lit up. "Yes! I'm terribly hungry!" She tucked into the meal, ravenously, only checking her manners every so often. She finished too soon for her liking, then thanked him.

Sir Merryweather smiled. "It was not trouble. Come, let's get you a room so you can go up and sleep."

Margret stifled a yawn. "I am rather tired."

"All the more reason. We'll sort things out in the morning, but you should rest now."

He spoke with the manager and secured her a room, before escorting her to it. They stopped in the hallway for some travelers to go by in the narrow corridor. Even after they left, the two continued to stand there in the dim candlelight. Sir Arthur was puzzled at her downcast face. "Is something the matter?"

Margret looked up, eyes shining at him in a way he had never seen before. They were big and brown, and he felt as if he was about to drown in their beauty. "Sir Merryweather, you've been so kind to me. I don't know what might have happened to me if you hadn't found me. I mean, I can take care of myself, but it wouldn't have been pleasant." Her eyes wandered to the flickering candle closest to them

"Call me Arthur."

Her eyes snapped back to him. "What?"

"My name is Arthur, and I'd like you to use it. You've allowed me to use your Christian name now, and I'd like you to the same for me. Although you did once say if I ever used your name, you'd hang me."

"Oh, please, don't repeat what I said. It was horrible of me. And I can't use your name— it isn't proper."

"When have you ever cared about what is proper?"

"You have a point."

"Then, please. Call me Arthur."

She bit her lip. "All right… Sir Arthur."

"No, just Arthur."

Margret slightly brushed his hand with her fingers. "Arthur… Thank you for finding me, and paying for my supper and room." She paused, looking straight at him. "And, I know it isn't proper, but hang propriety, so, here." She stood up on tip-toe and barely touched her lips to his. She retreated a few steps to the door to her room, saying, "Goodnight!" and then she disappeared into the room.

Arthur had a bit of trouble finding his own room that night.


	17. Chapter 17

"You're what?"

Sir Arthur's knife clattered upon his breakfast dish rather loudly. The few people up at the early hour, glanced at him with mildly annoyed looks.

Margret grabbed his hand, making his heart race. "For heaven's sakes, keep it down! You don't know what kind of people might be listening."

He lowered his voice. "But why? How could you even think of going after the very man who kidnapped you?"

"For that very reason! I can not sit back and peacefully drink tea every day knowing that a total stranger kidnapped me for an unknown reason, and took me to an unknown place, and that he's gotten away with it all! I will not tolerate it."

"Yes— and do you actually know how to find him?"

"No, but I _will_ find him, regardless of the difficulty."

He sat back in his chair, thinking. "I don't suppose there's any way I could convince you not to do it, is there?"

"Never."

"And you're wary of abduction by now."

"Of course."

"And I don't quite have the power to forbid you, do I?"

"Not a bit."

"Then there's only one solution: I'm coming with you."

"Absolutely not." She folded her hands, and looked calm and demure.

"Why ever not?"

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "I can't let you do that after you've already done so much for me. It might be better if I did this alone."

Arthur crossed his arms. "You don't think I can protect you."

"Oh, I know you're perfectly capable of that. I just don't want you to get hurt." She said this in a perfectly unaffected voice, but he still stared at her.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that was tragically heroic of you."

"It's a good thing you do know better, because I would've said the same thing."

"What would you say if I told you there's no way to stop me coming along?"

"I'd say you'd have to catch me first."

"You mean to run, is that it?"

"Yes, if you force me to."

"That does pose a problem; because I'm quite sure I wouldn't be able find you again."

"Especially not in London."

Arthur smiled wryly. "Well this conversation didn't go where I meant it."

Margret smiled back. "You mean to say you had a plan?"

"Not quite a plan so much as a general direction in the conversation."

"Oh, dear, I should have warned you. I don't usually adhere to plans and directions. So sorry about that. What was this general direction anyway? Perhaps we can get back on track."

"Well, if you mean to go after this mysterious kidnapper fellow, I don't think it has any point really."

"How intriguing. Do go on. As I said, I don't always stick to my plans."

"Well, it has to do with our lives. You are a gentleman's daughter, and I am a lord, and really, I don't see what it matters. A few months ago I would have said I could never even associate with someone below my station, whereas now, I say stations are absolute rubbish."

"Hear, hear."

"Thank you. I've spoken to my great-aunt and she thinks it a wonderful idea, but the decision was mine before I told her."

"Told her what?"

He took a deep breath. "Miss Dashwood, you are the most amazing woman I have ever met. Your intellect matches your beauty, along with your incredible wit, and I have found myself very much in love with you. At first I thought it was a mere matter of being smitten, and that it would pass, but as time has gone on, I find my admiration and love for you has grown beyond anything I could imagine. I would like to spend the rest of my life with you, and so I ask if you will accept my hand in marriage.

"Miss Dashwood, will you marry me?"

Margret stared at him, before bursting out laughing.

Arthur stared at her. "I really do mean it."

"Oh, I'm sorry! Yes, yes! Of course I will! It's just, oh dear! I never imagined I would be proposed to over breakfast!"

"I could do it after dinner if you like."

She took his hands again. "No, this is perfect. I am in lovely company, and I couldn't think of a better way to be asked.

"Sir Merryweather, of course I will marry you."

Arthur gripped her hands, leaning forward. "Really?"

Margret smiled. "Don't sound so surprised. Believe it or not, I have fallen completely in love with you, despite our short acquaintance and the nature of our relationship in the beginning."

"I loved you even then."

"I can't imagine why; I was terribly beastly to you."

"It never bothered me."

"Well, then, you are a saint."

He relaxed, shaking his head in wonder. "I did not know if you would say yes or not. I can hardly believe it."

"Well, then we have both had a wonderful surprise, and it's not even eight o' clock yet." She paused, an uncharacteristically dreamy expression on her face. "I'm engaged. To you. I don't know if I've ever been happier in my life."

"I'm certainly glad to hear it— you gave me quite a fright when you started laughing."

"Terribly sorry, but giddiness will do that to you."

"Is there anything we can do about your plan to go after the mysterious and possibly dangerous person?"

She thought a moment. "Well, seeing as we've only known each other a few months, I don't think our families or any of the gossips would think it proper if we got married right away. Perhaps I could go off for a few more months after this character, and when I've caught him we'll get married."

Sir Arthur looked concerned. "Margret, what about your mother?"

She looked down at her hands. "I'm not quite sure if it's the best time to tell her yet. You see, if I went back now, Mother would never let me out of her sight again, much less go traipsing about London after the same person that kidnapped me. Your reaction was shocked enough; imagine what hers would be."

"She needs some sort of comfort."

Margret's eyes lit up. "That's it! You'll go to my mother and comfort her!"

"What?"

"She doesn't know you that well, so it's the perfect time to introduce yourself as an interested party, and she'll be consoled by the fact that a young man was interested in her daughter before she died. She'll grow as fond of you as I have, I know she will!"

"All right, if it'll make you feel better. How am I going to contact you while you're searching?"

She shook her head. "I'll send you a message every now and then, but whatever you do, don't try to contact me unless it's an absolute necessity. I'll be moving around a lot, and besides, it might give away where I am to whoever might be looking for me. From the way that blackguard was talking about marrying me as soon as possible, I doubt that he'll give up so easily as _letting_ me escape."

"Be careful. I can't go with you, but I'll never forgive myself if something happens to you."

Margret smiled. "Don't worry; I could never let myself be harmed knowing I had a wonderful fiancée and future husband waiting for me."

"When will you be leaving?"

"Today. I wish I wasn't, but I have to start as soon as possible."

They finished their breakfast while talking of nothing of consequence— holding onto normal and unserious conversation as long as possible, knowing that they would soon be separated. The time passed all too quickly— as precious time usually does— and the unmerciful hands of time reached the hour upon which Margret had decided to leave.

Sir Arthur bought some old second-hand clothing for her to wear so she could blend in, and gave her a small purse of money. She tried to protest, but he would have none of it. "You'll need it to buy information and lodging for yourself, not to mention food."

She made sure no one was watching and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Thank you. I don't know what I would do without my knight in shining armor."

"Careful— those tears will rust the shining armor."

She scrubbed at her eyes. "Oh, look at me. I'm falling apart, and I haven't even left." She kissed him again. "Well, I suppose this is goodbye."

Arthur smiled kindly. "Not goodbye, Margret. Never goodbye. Just, till we meet again."

"Or until I write."

"Yes, that too." He paused, thinking. "Wait a moment. There was something I meant to give you." He pulled out the receipt he had found in her room, handing it to her. "I found this at the inn you were staying at."

"You went in my room?"

He colored slightly. "Well, yes. But that was when I thought you were dead."

"It's all right, I'm not cross. Thank you." She held up her chin, trying to smile. "Well, till we meet again." She walked around the corner and disappeared from sight.

Arthur stood watching after her. "Well, that's that." He went back into the inn and was almost to his room before it hit him. "Oh, bother. I don't know where her mother lives."

ooOoo

Margret was halfway into the heart of London before she remembered. "Oh, yes. Here it is: My receipt from Mr. Gadow's Bookshop. Hmm, it's a wonder Arthur ever found it." She paused, thinking. "Then again he made it sound as if he had found it quite easily. Meaning anyone could have found it." She resumed walking. "Even my kidnappers." Her eyes widened. "They probably got a good look at it too. Meaning… No. It can't be!" She set off in a dead run, dodging carriages and people alike, trying to remember the exact route. "Oh, please no. Please no."

She skidded to a stop in front of the store-front.

"…Good God…"

###################

A/N: So sorry about the extreme and inexcusable lateness of this chapter!


	18. Chapter 18

Margret was standing in front of a devastated storefront, which had been ripped and broken like an old oak that's in the way of progress. The windows were shattered, their remnants lying here and there; the display of once colorful books was shredded into dingy scraps of useless paper; the door was hanging pitifully by one hinge, swaying dangerously close to falling off with the slightest gust of wind; and inside, bookcases and glass displays were knocked over in splinters, their contents strewn about the place in dirty disrepair.

The sight made her want to cry.

She moved slowly towards the entrance— afraid of what else she would find, but anxious to assess the full extent of the damage. As she reached the door, her foot caught on something lying on the ground in a broken heap. She looked down.

_Mr. Gadow's Bookshop_.

She stepped back as if the sign were contaminated by the force which had put it there. Margret stepped carefully into the shop, calling out, "Hello? Is anyone here?"

The counter at which she had paid for her book was toppled over on its side, its surface marred by a deep crack down the center.

"Mr. Gadow? Are you here?" Margret hoped desperately not to hear anyone, signaling that Mr. Gadow was safe, and at the same time, hoping that she would hear the old man, so that she would know he was alive. It was a mixed up sort of feeling, and it only added to her frustrated confusion.

"He's gone, Dearie."

Margret whirled around to see an old crone poking about with her gnarled cane. "Mr. Gadow?"

"Aye, that's the one."

"He's not… dead, is he?"

The old woman wheezed like a wrinkly old bellows. "No, no, no. Didn't say that, did I, now? All I said was he's gone. Huh, young people these days. Always jumping to conclusions— and usually the wrong ones too."

Margret bit her lip. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. It's just… I'm so terribly worried about Mr. Gadow. Please, where is he?"

The woman pulled her ratty shawl around her, shivering in the wind. "I'm coming in there, where it's warmer. At least a bit warmer." She shuffled into the shop, depositing her small girth onto the overturned counter. "Now, Mr. Gadow has gone to stay with his daughter and her husband. Good girl, she married well at least. Her house isn't too grand, but I don't suppose that matters when you're in love, eh? Pah! Love— that's just a good joke the world likes to play on young people! Get their hopes up; think they'll have a happy ending, like in those lovey-dovey books people read so much. And when they think they've got it made— POOF! It goes up in smoke. I know, because I once had a young, handsome man who—."

"I'm terribly sorry," Margret interrupted politely. "But I thought you were going to tell me about Mr. Gadow."

The old woman took it in stride. "Yes, yes, I was getting to that. Anyways, he's there now, and it's a good thing too. I can't imagine anyone wanting to live _here_ after what happened."

"He _lived_ here?"

"I just said that, didn't I? Don't repeat everything I say. It was a terrible thing to happen to anyone, but it was such a pity that it happened to him. He was such a nice man. It's a lucky thing that he was out when it happened."

"What did happen, ma'am?"

The crone laughed, a raspy, gurgling sound. "No one's called me ma'am in years. Well, I'll tell you, I saw the whole thing." She looked around, and bent closer to Margret who had found a chair to sit upon, whispering conspiratorially. "I was sitting at my usual corner asking for donations, when all of the sudden, WHOOSH! A gigantic, fancy carriage comes dashing around the street, headed straight for Mr. Gadow's place. 'Well,' says I. 'Wonder what all the hullaballoo is about? Mr. Gadow doesn't seem like the type of fellow who would get involved with those big-wig money-lenders.' So I go over, being real careful not to let them see me. Five big goons leap out of the carriage and start to wreck the whole place, tearing everything to bits.

"Then, this really fancy-dressed, tall, handsome man steps out of the carriage and watches the whole thing, telling them to look for Mr. Gadow and 'the girl', as he put it. The whole thing mystified me, but I could tell that it was all evil stuff. That man was as cold as ice, and I could tell he got his way a lot. So, I pray and pray that they won't find old Gadow. And the good Lord musta been listening that night, because sure enough, the goons came out telling their boss that they couldn't find anybody. The boss-man looked pretty put out, but he told them to get back in the carriage, and they left. I tell you, I got out of there pretty fast, 'cause I didn't want those bad men to see me. Thank goodness, they drove right past without even seeing me."

Margret had been listening with ashen-face and trembling hands. "How awful!"

The woman shook her head sadly. "Yes, it was awful, but I managed to make it out alive. I thought about getting the police, but I figured it might not do to have the law snooping around the Drury Lane area. I can tell you, there're a lot of people 'roundabouts who might kill me if I brought in the cops."

Margret nodded. "That's understandable."

"Well," She heaved herself up, using her cane for support. "I have to be going. Idle people don't get food."

Margret stood, walking her to the door. "Thank you so much for sharing your harrowing experience with me, a total stranger. It must have been very hard for you."

"You're sweet, dear. Goodbye."

She watched the old woman shuffle away to "ask for donations". Margret turned back to the shop, angry because she knew exactly who had done this. There was no mistaking all the signs. Only a blackguard who kidnapped young women for strange, unknown reasons could have done such a thing.

If only she knew what the blackguard's name was.

ooOoo

After having a time getting Mrs. Dashwood's address, only to remember that Miss Yancey had it, and the general business of trying to think what to say and what to bring, Sir Arthur Merryweather finally made it up the steps of the house and to the door.

When he was shown in, Mrs. Dashwood did not seem to remember who he was.

He was rescued from an awkward predicament by Mrs. Jennings, who, remembering everyone and everything, was able to remind the grieving mother of the time at Margret's debut when she fainted and was helped by a "dashing young gentleman of quality". This certainly got Mrs. Dashwood's attention, until she remembered that she had no more daughters to offer.

Needless to say, it was a very interesting visit.

"Mrs. Dashwood, I'm terribly sorry for your loss. I came to pay my condolences not only as a concerned well-wisher, but as a friend. Despite all appearances, your daughter and I became better acquainted during the short time we knew each other."

"Oh?" Mrs. Dashwood was vaguely interested, but a bit preoccupied with some other matter in her head.

"Yes, quite close, in fact. Your daughter, Margret, was an amazing person, and a wonderful young woman. I very much admired her."

"Oh?" The syllable was decidedly more interested than the previous one uttered by Mrs. Dashwood.

"Yes, Mrs. Dashwood. In fact," He paused, looking down. "I _had_ hoped to marry her."

"_Oh_!"

Arthur was amused by her surprise and shock, but he held it in, and, as he was good at it, he appeared totally serious. "I don't quite know what Margret's feelings were for me, but I had hoped they were of a positive inclination."

Mrs. Dashwood seemed to be battling with herself as to what to say. She finally made a decision. "I don't pretend to have known what my daughter's heart was, but I can tell you this: Margret would not have entered into a relationship with any man if she objected to him even in the slightest bit. She was not the sort of person to go about frittering away her time with someone she did not truly enjoy being with."

"Thank you, Mrs. Dashwood. You have complimented me so highly, and yet you barely know me."

Mrs. Dashwood smiled. She was growing old, and it was obvious that she had a kind of tiredness about her, but she was still very pretty when she smiled, even if it was a sad sort of smile. "Young man, when I brought my daughter to London for her debut— ah! How long ago it all seems— I feared that with her temper and stubbornness, she would never be enticed to choose a husband— in fact, it seemed she hadn't. Until today, I had no way of knowing that Margret had ever found any man she had taken a fancy to. You've made me think that perhaps her debut mightn't have been a waste after all.

"Thank you, Sir Merryweather."

Arthur was profoundly touched by the woman's kind words and brave assurance, and he felt a hint of guilt at the fact that he was concealing her beloved daughter's existence, when he was sitting right in front of the very woman who needed the happy news the most. But, he had given his word to Margret and had agreed that the news would be premature when her mother couldn't be with her daughter just yet.

It would be cruel to tell her that Margret was alive, but she couldn't see her yet. No mother should hear that.

He bid her farewell, repeating his condolences, and she thanked him for the beautiful flowers he had brought. She held them in their vase as she stood in the doorway, and the sight of the flowers struck a cord.

He had chosen marigold, snowdrop, and marguerite flowers, with rosemary, rue, and Star of Bethlehem sprinkled in, because they looked pretty, as well as their respective meanings: pain and grief, consolation, patience, remembrance, regret, and hope.

_Flowers and meanings_.

That was it.

He hastily said goodbye again, dashing off to get a cab.

ooOoo

Margret blew out a frustrated sigh. She had spoken to six persons about the "crazy cab", as it was called, and all of them had redirected her to the next person— someone who had "seen it better"— including the last person she had spoken with. She was tired and night was falling fast on the street. She decided to leave her next lead until tomorrow.

Checking her small wallet, and making sure she had enough money first, she located a small, reasonably respectable inn from which the most delicious smell was coming. She took a deep, appreciative sniff. "_Stew_. Beef and vegetable stew."

She entered the establishment eagerly, ordering some supper before even checking into a room. Margret devoured the stew hungrily, dunking pieces of the home-baked bread into the broth, not caring about manners. The lady of the inn looked on warmly, not having anything else to do as it was a slow night. She had a lovely Irish accent that lilted off her tongue. "Ah, sure, and it's a fair sight to see a young, healthy appetite. Huh, most of those silly young girls just pick daintily at their food. Think they're maintaining their figure, they do. Well, let me tell you: a man likes a woman with a figure, he does. Skinny misses spend more of their time fainting from lack of strength than they do catching themselves a man."

Margret nodded, her mouth full. "_Mm-hmph_."

"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying that stew." She paused, giving a playful, backward scowl at a young boy clearing away dishes from a formerly occupied table. "Unlike _some_ people!"

The boy looked at his mother innocently. "I only said it could do with a few more carrots, Mum. I didn't say it was bloomin' chuck! I liked it I really did! You're a wonderful cook, to be sure!"

His mother chuckled. "Ah, away wi' ye, ye little rascal! Dug yourself in a hole, you have, and now you're trying to fill it with flowers." She smiled good-naturedly, turning back to Margret. "He's a good boy, but a bigger pickle there never was."

Margret managed to answer around a mouthful. "Most young boys usually are quite mischievous."

"Ah, a truer word was never spoken."

"And a more rascally boy never born."

The inn keeper laughed heartily. "Goodness me, you've got a quick wit and a ready answer! I like that in young person!"

Margret couldn't help but wink. "And you've got quick service and a ready meal. I like that in an inn."

The woman slapped her knee, exclaiming, "By the left! There's no end to your wit! I haven't had a laugh like this in a merry old while. Thank you kindly."

Margret couldn't resist one last quip. "And I haven't a meal like this in a merry old while. Thank _you_ kindly."

"Ah, away wi' ye! No more, no more, before my ribs break from laughing."

"Alright, as ye say. Is there any chance I can get a room before I'm thrown out for disturbing the peace?"

The inn keeper beamed. "Of course you can, Dearie! Have you got any bags with you?" Margret shook her head. "Well, that's alright. Did you hear that, young Ben? You're saved from lugging the luggage about since this nice young lady travels light!"

"Whoopee!"

"Stop shouting before I box your ears for breaking mine! Goodness, you'd think a person was deaf the way you carry on. This way, miss. Ben, you're not off the hook. Show this young lady to her room."

Margret pulled out her wallet, asking, "How much for one night, ma'am?"

The inn keeper told her and she paid the amount, along with the cost for her supper and breakfast the next morning. She said goodnight, and followed the young boy up some stairs into a small hallway.

He led her to a room that was fairly small, but adequately furnished. She was presented with a key and a small candle in its holder, and was told at what time breakfast was. She gave him a small coin, thanking him for his help.

Ben's eyes lit up. "Thank you, miss! I hope your stay is comfortable!"

Margret watched him dash off to show his mother his small earning. She smiled.

He certainly was a young pickle, but she was sure he would turn out a fine lad.

She entered her room, blew out the candle, and locked the door, and had scarcely laid her head upon her pillow before she fell into a deep, restful sleep.

ooOoo

But, there was someone else, in that very city of London, who was most definitely _not_ sleeping that night.

He was searching.


	19. Chapter 19

"Thank you! Goodbye!"

Margret waved to the innkeeper and her son. She regretted having to leave their friendly company, but she had clues to follow that would not wait another day.

She could not let the trail grow cold.

ooOoo

Mary glanced at her father before going back to her embroidery. According to the mantle clock, it had been exactly six minutes since he had said he was going out, and he still hadn't left yet.

She stabbed at a crooked rose with her needle and thread, trying to make it look less like a splotch and more like a flower. It was hopeless in her mind, but she still needed to look as if she was occupied with something until her father left.

Finally, he called for his walking stick, and on receiving it, he entered the parlor to tell Mary, once again, that he was off. Taking a look at her embroidery, he remarked, "Very pretty depiction of blood, dear."

Mary bit her lip. "It's a rose, Father."

"Oh, quite right. Yes, of course. Very pretty. See you at supper, my dear."

"Goodbye, Father."

As soon as the door was shut, she jumped up from her chair to peer out the window. After making quite sure he had rounded the corner and was gone, she ran to the bookcase to find her concealed book.

She settled down in the window seat to read. Mary had been waiting to find out who "did in" the arch-duke for several days, but hadn't found the time to read until now.

It was all hers now.

Apparently the countess wasn't at all who she said she was. She was, in fact, really the famed "Grecian Assassin" from Estonia!

As Mary puzzled over how you could be called Grecian and be from Estonia, she heard a faint rapping noise, like knuckles upon thick glass. She listened carefully.

Nothing.

Going back to her Grecian/Estonian countess/assassin, she distinctly heard the sound again, coming from the kitchen. She thought a moment. All the servants were on their day off, except the manservant, who had just gone around the corner to pick up Father's new suit from the tailor's. Of course, in London it could be anyone.

Urchins.

Chimney-sweeps.

Beggars.

_Thieves_.

Mary put her book on the cushions, marking her place with her embroidery. Carefully making hardly any sound, she tip-toed across the room, looking around the door-frame into the hall. When she saw that no one was there, she almost went back to her window seat— almost, but not quite. Instead of the rapping noise, she now heard a rattling, followed by crash from the kitchen.

She hitched up her skirts and ran down the hall, panic swelling in her chest, making it hard to breathe. She made a terrific entrance, crashing through the swinging door into the kitchen, yelling at the robbers to go away before she did something rash. In a desperate attempt to arm herself, she grabbed the nearest thing she could.

"Get out, you! I'm not afraid to hurt you, so just get out!"

She brandished her weapon at the intruder, who laughed and had the _nerve_ to sit on the edge of the kitchen table. "I don't think you can hurt me with that!"

Mary looked down at her "weapon."

A carrot.

"Oh. Oh, dear."

The thief laughed again. "'Oh, dear,' is right. I must say, when you came running in here with such a tremendous crash, I expected a bit more."

Mary glared at the unknown person. "Well, if you like, I can come back prepared with something a bit sharper to impress you."

"That won't be necessary."

It irked her a great deal, but Mary felt as if she recognized the voice coming from beneath the large, floppy hat covering the robber's face. "Who are you and what are you trying to steal? I warn you, I'm quite ready to call the authorities."

The thief jumped off the table. "Steady on there! I say, there's no need for that."

"Oh, isn't there? You're a thief, you're in my house, and you should be arrested."

The stranger cocked his head at her. "Don't you know who I am?"

"No, but I'd be absolutely _intrigued_ if you'd tell me."

He bowed, saying, "Happy to oblige," and swiping off his hat.

Beg pardon, _her_ hat.

Mary gasped.

Margret laughed. "You look exactly the way Arthur did when he saw me!"

"You— but— and— the— wha…!"

"He did that too!"

Mary grabbed her friend's hands. "I thought you were dead!"

"And that!"

"Be serious, Margret!"

"Right. Sorry."

Mary tried to calm her frazzled nerves. "Let me get this straight: you didn't go down with the ship?"

"Not at all."

"Were you even _on_ the ship?"

"Well, I don't think I would even be here if I had been; the ship sank fairly early on." Margret smiled. "See? I'm not dead. I'm alright!"

Mary sank into a chair. "Praise the Lord…"

"That's what I thought when I heard about the ship."

"Does your mother know? About you being alive?"

Margret looked uncomfortable. "…No."

"You mean to tell me _Sir Merryweather_ knows, but your own mother _doesn't_?"

"Yes, it's a tad sticky, but it's all for the best." She explained the method to the madness, as well as the reason she was still alive, not excluding any of the details about her abduction. "So, you see, I can't go back just yet, nor can Mother be told yet."

Mary thought a while. "Yes, I do suppose that is best. It would be rather cruel otherwise." She looked quizzically at her dear friend. "But that still doesn't explain why you're in my kitchen! Well, cook's kitchen, really. She doesn't let anyone in here other than the maids. But I suppose it's _our_ kitchen, really, since we own the house, and—."

"_Mary_. Do you want to know why I'm in here, or not?"

"I do, it's just I'm so terribly excited right now, I'm starting to ramble, and when I start to ramble I can never—." She stopped herself. "Sorry. Go on."

Margret put her hand behind her head, grinning sheepishly. "It's the most absolutely foolish thing you're ever going to hear. I'm… well, hungry."

"You mean you came for _food_?"

Margret hastened to explain. "Well, it's not the foremost reason, but at the moment it _is_ the most important on the agenda. I'm absolutely starved! Is there anything to eat about?"

Mary looked about, finding a loaf of bread and some cheese. Her friend fell upon them ravenously, talking with her mouth full. "Oh, th'nk oo, M'ry! 'h'vn't eaten since y'st'rday."

Mary looked aghast. "You haven't eaten since yesterday? Why ever not?"

Margret swallowed her mouthful. "I've been on the trail of my kidnapper all this time. I can't let anything get in the way— unfortunately, that means food as well."

"That reminds me: what about the other reason for your unexpected visit?"

Margret became very serious. "The clues I've been following have been slowly leading me back to the world of aristocracy. I'm not totally surprised, since the man obviously has family and money to own such a large estate and house. The last person I talked to told me that the man stopped the carriage to buy a newspaper.

"As he was paying for the paper, a man who introduced himself as General Yancey spoke to him. Apparently, your father recognized the man and asked if he would be attending something called the 'militia ball'. The man said he would, and that he hoped to see your father there. Then they parted their separate ways. That's why I came to you. I wondered if you knew anything about this meeting between the two or the 'militia ball'."

Mary bit her lip, thinking hard. "How long ago would this be?"

"Anytime within the last week."

Mary nodded. "I think I do remember Father mentioning something about it. All he said was he met an officer who served under him a long time ago. Nothing else about that. But I can help a bit more with the subject of the Militia Ball. It's an annual ball held by old officers for the younger generation of militia. Any officers in the city during the ball attend, and lots of the families attend as well. In fact, it's the day after tomorrow, and Father and I are going. It's my first time, and I must admit I'm rather excited about it, and I hope—." She stopped, eyes wide. "Ooh. _Ooh_, I see now! Your abductor will be at the Militia Ball!"

Margret smiled grimly. "If we can figure out who it was your father met, we'll have our man. I need you to be my eyes and ears at this ball. You have to find out who it is."

Mary beamed. "I can do one better! I'm going to get you into the ball as my personal guest."

"Are you sure? Won't I be conspicuous as the only stranger?"

"Not at all! Lots of the families bring guests."

"I've nothing to wear. Most of my clothes went down with the ship and my other things are with Mother."

"You'll wear one of my dresses."

Margret hugged her friend excitedly. "Oh, Mary, thank you!"

Mary held her slightly back from her. "First thing's first, dear. No offense, but you desperately need a bath."

Margret's eyes danced at the prospect. "Lead the way! It's been ages since I've had one."

As they trooped out, Mary wrinkled her nose a bit. "I can tell."

ooOoo

"Harumph, very happy you'll be attending with us, Lady Cornflower."

Mary nudged her father, whispering, "Columbine."

General Yancey blinked owlishly. "Ah, yes, of course. Very happy, Lady Constance."

Margret curtsied deeply. She was wearing cream colored gown with dainty shoes and had her hair pinned up in fashionable style with a small bunch of flowers. "I was honored by your invitation, General. I've never been to a Militia Ball before."

"Ah, yes, well, neither has my daughter."

"How exciting. It will be a new experience for the both of us, then."

"Yes, of course."

"Carriage is ready, Father," Mary called from her place at the window.

"Ah, good, good. Then we'll be off, eh?"

The carriage wheels spun almost as fast as the wheels in Margret's head. She analyzed each clue she had come across, putting them together to make a sadly incomplete puzzle. The clues were nothing without the man's identity.

ooOoo

"I'm beginning to regret letting you talk me into this."

Colonel Edmondson waved a hand loftily at his friend. "Come now, Merryweather! This is the perfect thing for that depressed cloud hanging above your head. A bit of sunshine such as a ball is the perfect distraction to clear it away!"

What he took as a depressed cloud was an overly occupied cloud hanging over Arthur Merryweather's head. He was still worried about Margret, though he knew she could take care of herself, and another riddle kept popping into his tired brain. The description of Margret's kidnapper sounded strangely familiar, but then again, a great deal of men sounded like that. He couldn't tell if he was just jumping at shadows, or if there was really something to it.

At any rate, the Militia Ball was certainly a distraction, but not exactly a welcome one. "Edmondson, I don't know what I'm doing here, really. I don't know anyone— except you, of course— and it's not as if I want to be introduced to anyone here."

"Come, come, Merryweather! That's a rather gloomy attitude. It's not as bad as all that, is it? Look sharpish and I'll introduce you to the belles here."

"I tell you, I don't _want_ to be introduced to any belles."

"Oh, yes you do. You just don't know it yet! You will when you see them, though. I heard there's a beautiful countess or lady coming tonight. Maybe we can find her in this crowd, along with some other pretty girls."

"Is that all you think about, Edmondson? Women?"

"I'm insulted! I not only think about women, I think about their money too! That's an important factor, you know."

"I don't know why I even bother to be associated with you."

"Because I know all the rich, beautiful women around?"

"I'm sure it's not _that_."

"It could be."

"Most definitely _not_."

"Well, why not?"

"Because, you gown-chasing idiot, I already have someone in mind."

Edmondson stared at his somewhat-friend before laughing loudly. "You sly fox! Who is she? Has she got title? Money? Connections?"

"Those aren't the only qualities in a woman, you know."

"Important factor, like I said. So she must be beautiful, if she hasn't got any money."

Sir Merryweather stared off into someplace else. "As an angel."

"Really? Could you introduce me?"

Arthur glared contemptuously at him. "Not a chance."

The colonel held up his hands. "Alright, alright, never mind. Good Lord, it was just a question. Anyways, let's go meet some belles."

"I already told you—!"

"Not for you, ninny! For me! _I_ don't have a beautiful girl waiting for me and I've got to look at the options out there."

"You are the absolute limit."

"Thank you. You're a close second."

Arthur followed Edmondson as he made his way through the crush, grumbling the whole way. "I don't see why I have to come along."

"Well, I'd look silly if it was just me alone, wouldn't I? At least with a lord beside me, I'll _look_ like I have connections." He stopped, discreetly pointing out a party that had just entered the room. "Look, I think that's her. The countess, or duchess, or whatever she is."

Arthur did indeed look.

And again.

And _again_.

There was no mistaking it no matter how many times looked: It was Margret, dressed up in an exquisitely fine dress, and accompanied by Miss Yancey, and a white-haired gentleman he assumed was the latter's father. She was nodding her head demurely to other attendees, acting the part of a perfect lady who was reasonably titled.

Margret looked around the room, playing her part as well as she could, when she saw Arthur. He was staring right at her, in confusion and admiration. She caught his eye, trying to tell him not to act particularly alarmed. He must have caught the message, because he masked his expression with indifference and turned to have polite conversation with his companion.

She breathed a sigh of relief and did the same. Arthur was an unexpected— if not surprisingly welcome— addition to the setting, but things would have to go as planned.

She did not have to worry about never meeting her kidnapper in the huge assembly, because General Yancey was methodically introducing her to everyone he knew within range. They would very soon make a complete sweep of the crowd, and Margret in fact feared that the ball would end before they ever got to the right person.

Mary quietly reached to squeeze her hand reassuringly. Margret smiled, knowing that she had noticed the buried anxiousness in her. "I'm sorry, Mary. I'm being a bit dull, aren't I?"

Mary nodded to all the people they had met. "I'm not surprised. I never realized father knew so many people, let alone that he would introduce us to _all_ of them."

Margret seized her friend's arm. "Mary— oh, Mary. He's here— it's him." She tried to point him out without actually making the gesture with her hand. "Look, there: by the woman with all the feathers in her hair. To the left of the man who's had a bit too much wine. There, you see him?"

Mary nodded. "Yes, I do. He looks perfectly normal to me, but I suppose that's the dangerousness of him."

"I'm going to have to turn a bit away so he doesn't recognize me. Watch his every movement, and tell me what they are."

"Oh, dear."

Margret was tempted to turn, but she refrained. "What? What is it?"

"Well, you're not going to like this, but, he's headed this way."

"Oh, no. I can't let him see me. How far away is he?"

"He's in father's range of introductions."

"I've got to get out of here immediately. Tell your father I've gone to find a glass of water, and that I'll be back shortly. I'm going to watch from someplace hidden. When he leaves you, I'll be back. Make absolutely sure you get his name. See you in a bit." She slipped off into the crowd without General Yancey's notice.

Even thought her friend couldn't hear her, Mary whispered, "Good luck."

Margret moved between rooms, positioning herself behind a few gentlemen and a pillar so that she could see her friend and anyone introduced, but so she herself wouldn't be seen by them. It was only a matter of time before her kidnapper reached the Yancey's.

She jumped at a voice behind her. "Margret, what are you doing here?"

She turned, sighing with relief. "Oh, Arthur, you gave me such a fright! I'm here to unmask my kidnapper."

He looked alarmed. "What? You mean he's _here_?"

"Yes, and he's about to meet Miss Yancey— you remember her, don't you? Well, apparently he's an old friend of General Yancey, and he's going to be introduced to Mary any moment now. I had to get out of there so he wouldn't recognize me."

"Margret, it's dangerous for you to be here. What if he sees you?"

"Didn't I just say that's why I'm hiding?"

"Oh, right." He moved next to her so that he was seeing the same thing as her. "Which one is he?"

"He's that one right—."

Margret was unable to finish her sentence, because one of the gentlemen they were concealing themselves behind knew Merryweather and decided to strike up conversation. The two conversed politely with the gentlemen, but both were anxious to get back to the scene before them.

It was some time before they were able to break away, and by then, her kidnapper was gone. Margret scanned the room for him. "I don't see him anywhere."

"You mean we've lost him?"

"I'm afraid so. I'm going to see if Mary was introduced to him." Without waiting for his reply, she moved through the crush expertly, making her way to her friend.

Mary saw her and came to meet her. "I've got it, I know his name."

"What is it?"

"Hunt. Charles Hunt."

"Hunt? That's appropriate."

"Unfortunately so."

Margret shuddered, ashen-faced. "Do you know what else is unfortunate?"

Mary's eyebrows scrunched up worriedly. "No, what?"

"The 'Hunt' is on, my dear Mary.

"He's seen me."


	20. Chapter 20

Mary stared at her friend. Margret's composure and expression seemed perfectly calm in all aspects. The mask ran deep and was fueled by quiet urgency.

Margret smiled demurely. "I've just said something clever. So clever, in fact, that you will titter gently at this even more witty addition."

Mary obeyed.

"By the way, you have a very pretty laugh. It sounds like bluebells."

"Do bluebells makes any sound?"

"No, not really, but if they did, they'd sound like your laugh. Keep talking. Move your mouth gently so he can't read our lips."

Mary murmured, "Can he read lips?"

"I don't know, but I wouldn't put it past him to do something as rude as listening in on someone's conversation— even if he isn't really using his ears."

Arthur emerged at her elbow. "There you are Margre— I mean, er, Miss Dashwood. Fancy taking off on a chap like that."

"Lady Columbine."

"What?"

"My alias is Lady Columbine."

"Oh. Right."

She smiled at him politely. "Oh, Sir Merryweather. There you are. For a moment there I thought I'd lost you." Without moving her lips at all, she whispered, "Ask me to dance."

"What? I hardly think this is the time, Margre—."

"Just do it. If you love me, you will ask me to dance."

Mary blushed for the both of them and Arthur looked startled. "Alright. Lady Columbine, would you do me the honor of dancing the next dance with me?"

"I'd be honored, your lordship."

Margret took his proffered arm and they proceeded to the ballroom.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't call me you lordship, by the way. It makes me terribly uncomfortable."

"As you wish."

Luckily for them, the next dance had not started yet, and they were able to assemble in time for it.

The musicians played.

The dancers began.

And the hunter was on the prowl.

Margret immediately recognized the form of the piece and the movement of the other dancers, and accommodated accordingly. "Oh, dear."

Arthur bent his head so he could hear her. "What's the matter?"

"This is the quadrille."

"Yes, what about it?" The second couple in the square of four couples began their turn.

"Well, it's just that each couple has to dance by themselves while the others wait."

"I'm not seeing your point yet." The third couple began.

"I can't afford this kind of attention! In the corner of this room, over by the musicians is the man that kidnapped me. His name is Charles Hunt. No, don't look in his direction! He's too far away to read our lips, but he's watching us and if you look over there, he'll know we're talking about him."

Arthur ground his teeth together. "I can't wait to get my hand on his filthy neck."

"Well, you _will_ have to wait. It's our turn."

They were the last couple in the square, and, though they were apprehensive, they danced it rather well. As they turned at their opposite corners, it felt as if the whole world was melting away like the paint on a watercolor that's been submerged in water. There were only them, the dance, and the faint strains of music filtering through haze around them. Arthur stared at the woman he loved, and she stared back, as they tried to remember to continue dancing.

Presently, they came to the point at which they were supposed to retire to their corner. They made way for the leading couple to begin again, but in their minds they were still dancing with one another.

Fortunately, Arthur had the presence of mind to ask quietly, "Is he still watching?"

Without looking, she nodded. "Of course."

"What does he seek to gain?"

"Nothing that I can think of. But I'm sure he takes immense pleasure in the fact that I _know_ he's watching."

"He's mad."

"Or brilliant. The best way to get to someone without physically hurting them is play mind games with them. He wants to break me down."

"Is it working?"

Margret smiled demurely, but beneath the fake exterior, Arthur could see the genuine smile. "Not as long as I'm with you."

They began and ended their turn a little more soberly, as the realization that they were playing a dangerous game hit them.

The dance ended and the couples applauded each other, smiling gaily and complimenting their partners. Margret turned to Arthur, curtseying for the benefit of a certain pair of eyes. "It was a pleasure, Sir Merryweather."

"The pleasure was all mine." When he rose from his bow, he whispered, "Would you like to tell me what's going on around here, and why you are at the same ball as your kidnapper?"

She nodded politely. "Yes, why don't we sit this dance out so we can talk?"

They retreated to the wall, pretending to watch as the next dance began. Margret instructed him to make comments in between her pauses, so that the conversation would flow and not seem suspicious. She explained— with the occasional fake comment from Arthur— the whole mess that had led up to the ball, including what she had been doing all the time she had been in the underbelly of London. It seemed to her that she had been doing a lot of explaining ever since she had been kidnapped— though, in her opinion, it was her _abductor_ who should be doing the explaining. _He_ was the cause of all this.

"Amazing," Arthur finally said. "Who says you _can't_ find anything in London?"

"It looks as if he found me— though not in the way he expected, I suppose. He's probably feeling as smug as the cat that ate the canary now that it seems I've played right into his hands."

"Have you?"

"Good grief, no. But," she added. "He doesn't need to know that."

"Your only problem now is finding out his name."

"Well, actually—." She stopped, frantically scanning the crowd. "Oh, good Lord."

"What?"

"I can't see him anymore."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up in alarm. "You mean you lost him?"

"Well, I was talking to you, and you can be quite distracting, you know— oh, there he is. Mercy on us, he's _leaving_! Come on!" She leapt up, trying not to appear too eager.

Arthur followed her as she weaved through the mesh of people. "I thought you wanted to stay away from him!"

Margret tried to call back without shouting. "Well, I don't want him to _see_ me, but I _do_ want to know where he's going and why he's leaving so suddenly."

He struggled to keep up. "Wait, Margret! Hold on a moment!"

She made it past the dense packing of human sardines and to the opposite edge of the room. The exit she had seen Mr. Hunt take was a large double door entrance in the French style, opening into sort of a garden. It had lots of shrubs, and very few flowers, and was, in Margret's opinion, not very pretty.

She looked around, and, not seeing her quarry, walked out among the shrubs. Some were very large, and soon she could not see the hall anymore. It did not worry her. She was a bit too busy finding the needle in the haystack they dared to call a garden. It was rather like a maze she had seen in someone's garden, but theirs had been much smaller and much shorter.

For a fleeting moment her fantasies came back.

_Brave Captain Margret Dashwood trekked through the deadly Maze of the Anaconda. It was said that at the end of the maze, there lay a treasure of gold and a wealth of knowledge never before introduced into the civilized world._

_Or a giant Anaconda monster waiting to strangle and eat you._

_It depended on which legend you believed._

_Not surprisingly, most people tended to believe the one about the treasure._

_It was curious, however, that no one had ever come back from the dangerous journey before…_

Margret shook her head to clear her mind. This was not a game. It was absolutely serious. She remembered that she was following a very dangerous man. If he had been perfectly at ease with kidnapping a perfect stranger, who knew what else he might do?

"Margret!"

She turned at Arthur's voice, but he was not behind her. "Arthur? Where are you?"

"I… I'm not sure. Where are _you_?"

She looked around, finding only walls of greenery. "I'm not sure either! Hold on, I'll try to come back the way I came!" Margret ticked off the directions on her hands. "Let's see, going backwards that was a right— then a left— then another left— then straight to the second right— then a left— or was that another right?"

"It was definitely a left."

Margret almost jumped as she looked up sharply. "Oh, yes, hello. There you are."

Arthur smiled at her attempt to cover her small fright. "Here I am."

"Here you are, indeed."

Margret's eyes widened at the voice and she whirled around. "It's you!"

He smiled, amused by her reaction. "It's me."

"Oh, good Lord."

He drank in the sight of her. "Yes. Good Lord."

She got over her initial shock and was pleased to find that she was waspishly angry. "Will you stop repeating everything? It's very annoying."

"As you wish."

"Don't say that!" she snapped. "It sounds as if you really meaning something else."

"In a way, I do."

"Stop toying with me! I had enough of that when you so graciously _invited_ me to you home." She glanced at Arthur, who still hadn't gotten over _his_ initial shock. "Are you all right?"

"I…"

Charles smiled. "I think we can take that as a no. Good to see you, Arthur."

Margret stared. "_You know him?_"

He chuckled. "Come, come, Arthur. We've already met, but you should introduce Margret and me formally. Bad form if you don't, you know."

Arthur's blood boiled. "I'd rather go to—!"

"Tut, tut," Charles interrupted. "Not in front of the lady. If you _please_!"

Margret felt like tearing out her hair— or someone's hair. "Let me calmly repeat my question: _YOU KNOW HIM?_"

"Unfortunately, yes." The two glared at each other on realizing they had said the same thing.

"How do you know Charles Hunt, Arthur?"

Charles smirked. "She's very familiar with you, isn't she, Merryweather?"

Arthur gritted his teeth. "Because, Margret… He's my cousin."

Margret paled and turned slightly green. "I'm not one for _real_ swooning, but at the moment, I might need someone to catch me."

Arthur rushed to her side, and glared when Hunt almost did the same. "I wasn't serious!" she yelled in a most unladylike way, but she _was_ feeling very close to losing the tea she had taken earlier. When she was absolutely sure she wasn't going to embarrass herself, Margret managed to ask calmly, "_YOUR COUSIN_?"

"Well, it's not my fault!"

"You didn't tell me!"

"I didn't know it was _Charles Hunt_! You never told me his name!"

"I was getting to it a few minutes ago, but _he_," She pointed at Mr. Hunt, while still arguing with Arthur. "Interrupted us!"

"He" looked bewildered. "But I haven't spoken to you all night! How did I interrupt you?"

"You left!"

He blinked. "That's usually the opposite of interrupting."

"Not in this case!" She counted to ten. Mother always said that was how she got through raising her. "Back to the real matter: Mr. Hunt you have kidnapped me, and I will see you thrown into prison for it. The authorities will arrest you, now that I know your name."

He smiled patronizingly. "I find that very difficult to believe, since it will never happen."

"Do you intend to kill me with your sword, so that my information will never reach the police?"

"No. Even if you _did_ make it to them, they would never believe you."

"What?"

Arthur took her hand, ashen-faced. "He's right, Margret."

"What? Why?"

"We have no evidence. No one actually saw you being abducted. And no one saw you escape. You don't even remember where you were taken to."

His words sank into her heart like acid. The world seemed to drift away.

All she could think was, _No. There has to be something. I will not give up! You cannot make me give up!_

Arthur saw the stricken look in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Margret."

"… hairpins…" A glimmer was forming in her mind.

_I don't have to give up… I have it… evidence…_

The two men stared at her. "What?"

She slowly started to focus. "The… hairpins. That's the evidence… it's the hairpins!" She couldn't contain her jubilation. "It's there! It'll be there! The hairpins I used to pick the lock to my room! I had to get out and all I had were a few pins in my hair, so I used those to pick the lock! I broke a few, but one of them worked!"

"How is that evidence?"

"Don't you see? They're still there! In his house! I put the broken ones under a chest of drawers by door! They're on a ledge on the underside!"

Arthur seized her by the shoulders. "Are you sure they're there? _Absolutely_?"

She smiled through tears of happiness. "Yes! Yes! I took the unbroken one with me, but the others are still there! And look!" She pulled something from a concealed place in her dress. It was black, metal pin with a small pink lotus on the end. "I still have it!"

Hunt's eyes flicked about. "Anyone could have pins like that."

"No! That's just it! Mother had them made for before I was to go to India! They're one of a kind! This one will match the others at his house!"

Arthur picked her up and spun her about. "Margret, you've done it! You've got him!"

Hunt set his jaw firmly. "Not if I can help it! I don't care if you're beautiful or not, you ungrateful vixen! I'm not going to prison again!" He drew his sword and ran at the spinning couple.

Arthur stopped just in time for Charles to raise his sword.

"_Look out!_"


	21. Chapter 21

"Margret! Where are your stockings?"

Margret shrugged noncommittally. "In the fire."

Her mother's voice was shrill. "_In the __**fire**__? You __**burned**__ you undergarments?_"

"Not all of them. Just the stockings."

"Oh, no other mother should have to go through what I do! Margret, you cannot get married _without_ your stockings on."

"Well, I'd better, or there's going to be quite a few disappointed guests."

"You're not properly dressed!"

Margret twirled for her to see, almost tripping over her small train. "I'm wearing my wedding dress, aren't I? Isn't that enough?"

"No, it's not! You must have the proper undergarments on!"

"But they're itchy! Do you want me to bend over in church to scratch my legs while I'm saying my vows?"

"Nether limb, Margret, say 'nether limb'. You must learn never to refer to limbs directly."

"I thought nether referred to—."

"No. No, it doesn't."

"Oh. But you said—."

"No, I said nothing of the kind."

"I think it's extremely ridiculous not to just call a leg what it is."

"I think it's extremely ridiculous for a bride to get married without stockings."

Margret blinked at her mother. "Mother, did you just make a… witty comeback?"

Her mother raised an eyebrow at her. "You're not the only one who can be cheeky in this family. Where do you think _you_ got it? From your father? Not likely."

Margret shook her head, muttering to herself, "Somewhere in the underworld it's _snowing_… I just know it is…"

"What's that?"

"Oh, I said I know my wedding's going to be just _heavenly_."

Mrs. Dashwood smiled tearfully. "Yes, it is."

Margret hugged her mother, not caring if her dress wrinkled. "Oh, Mother. You said you wouldn't cry."

"Oh, I know dear, but… I lied."

"It's not like you to be dishonest."

"Well, I didn't want to upset you. Besides, I'm pleased for you. I'm not crying because I'm losing a daughter."

"Oh, so you're crying because you're happy to gain another room in the house."

Her mother laughed, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. "No, dear. Now, don't dawdle. We must be on time at the church. It just wouldn't do to be late for your own wedding!" She bustled out, calling to their only manservant to see if the landau was ready.

Margret looked around at her room— or, I should say, her former room. The room she had slept in, had adventures in, read books in, and had hid in for the past five years. It was hard to believe she was really leaving the beautiful cottage, but _apparently_ you're not allowed to live with your mother when you're married.

Mary entered the room, looking around. "It looks so bare. By the way, did you really burn your stockings? Sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I was just outside."

"No, I didn't."

"Then why did you tell your mother you did?"

"So I wouldn't have to wear them."

"Margret, you're terrible."

"I know. But _they're_ terribly itchy."

"The wool kind?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Make sure they're well hid, then."

Margret pointed. "Don't worry; they're under a loose floorboard I found a few years ago."

"_Margret!_"

Mary took her friend's arm, hurrying her out the door. "That's your mother, and she doesn't sound like her usual calm self. Remember, you weren't supposed to dawdle."

"You made me! Ah! Mind the dress, mind the dress…"

Mrs. Dashwood was waiting anxiously by the carriage. She wrung her hands. "Oh, Margret. Do hurry, dear."

Margret hitched up her skirt and scrambled into the carriage.

"Margret!" Mrs. Dashwood glanced around, making sure no one had witnessed her daughter's moment of unladylike behavior.

Her daughter shrugged, arranging her train. "You're the one who told me to hurry."

Mrs. Dashwood sighed and daintily seated herself in the carriage. Mary followed suit, beaming across at her friend. "Oh, this is so exciting! I've never been a maid of honor before."

The trip to the church felt like no time at all. All at once, they were there, and Mary was getting ready to walk before her, and Colonel Brandon was taking her arm. He smiled at her. "You look lovely, sister. I'm proud to be giving you away."

Margret smiled back confidently, but inside her heart was fluttering madly. "Thank you."

Someone began playing a piano inside, and Mary was starting off down the aisle. Margret counted the seconds.

…Three, four, _five_.

She floated. It was the first time she had ever employed the silly trick of making yourself glide as you walk, but she actually floated today. They reached the minister, and every eye was on the beautiful bride.

The bride's eye was on her groom. Margret could not keep from looking at him, no matter how hard she tried. No, she did not even want to try.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

Arthur leaned over slightly. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you," she whispered back. "How's your leg, er, nether limb?"

"Fine. Not a smidgen of pain."

"Do you, Arthur Norman Merryweather take Margret Dashwood…"

Their vows were said and rings exchanged and before they knew it, the minister was saying, "… You may kiss the bride."

He needn't have bothered.

After sealing their marriage with a heavenly kiss, Margret and Arthur took each other's hand and ran out of the church, with everyone throwing rice at them. He helped her into the landau and they both waved to everyone as they drove away. Mrs. Dashwood was extremely teary-eyed, Mary was on the arm of a certain friend of Arthur's, and Mrs. Jennings could be heard saying, "I always knew they'd be a match! And it's thanks to me that they even met…"

Margret laughed, leaning against her new husband. "I do believe Mrs. Jennings is taking credit for our marriage. I suppose we do owe her a little. She _is_ the only reason I was able to have my début."

"But we met before that, remember?"

She smiled. "Yes, of course. How could I forget? I must have looked a terrible fright coming out of the water. Pond weeds in my hair, dress soaked through."

Arthur kissed the top of her head. "You looked beautiful."

She snorted. "Not likely. The water was practically _green_."

"Would you stop arguing with me? I'm right about this, if nothing else."

"Fine. You can be right this time, and I'll be right the next time."

"Are we taking turns?"

"Of course. Otherwise we'd never get anything resolved."

"Ah. Oh, I forgot to ask: Did you read about Hunt in the paper?"

"No, what about him?"

"He finally got his sentence last week. I think they'll be throwing away the key for his cell, because by the time he's released from prison, it'll be dust."

Margret held her breath. "What were the charges?"

"Kidnapping, ransacking private property, and they would've charged him with murder and sabotage if they had been able to find evidence that he tampered with the _Earl of Mansfield II_. I wonder why they didn't just hang him."

"Probably because he has family connections in the aristocratic world," she said thoughtfully.

Arthur nodded. "Probably. I'm ashamed to be one of those connections. I just can't believe that I'm related to such a fiend."

"Remember, I'm related to him now, too. You have to admit though, he was clever."

"I don't have to admit anything. He's a blackguard."

"Oh, come now. The flower messages were ingenious."

"But we didn't realize it until too late. It didn't matter in the end, anyways."

"It was still brilliant. Most men don't know the language of flowers, or that primroses mean Eternal Love."

"It sickens me that he loved you 'eternally' without even meeting you. I still can't believe you thought I sent those flowers."

"Don't worry; I know better _now_."

"He even had the gall to send lobelia."

"'Malevolence' was fitting, don't you think?"

Arthur shook his head. "To think, they even let him in the militia."

"They threw him out, though."

"It's called a dishonorable discharge."

Margret shrugged. "Whatever it is, he got the boot and went into hiding."

"Because he stole from a senior officer out of revenge."

"Ah, so that's where he got the uniform to wear to the militia ball. I did think it looked a bit old."

"It's hard to believe General Yancey didn't know about his abominable history."

"Well, the General isn't exactly the most observant person…"

"Now I understand why the family hadn't heard Hunt for a while. It was because he was hiding from his deplorable deeds."

"Alright, now you're just looking for ways to add to his… scummy-ness. Perhaps we should just forgive him and move on with our lives."

"Well, it's not so hard for you. I mean, you were able to get a kick at him before they took him away— a brilliant kick, by the way."

Margret beamed. "Thanks. I still can't believe I was able to go that high, though."

"It's a good thing you did, or I would've been skewered. You knocked the sword right out of his hand, just in time."

"Yes, but I also knocked _you_ over, and you ended up twisting your ankle. Are you sure it doesn't hurt?"

Arthur took her hand. "Even if it did, I wouldn't notice, because I'm with you."

"So it does hurt!"

"No, it's fine."

"I told you, you should have brought your walking stick!"

"I don't need it! Besides, it makes me look like an old man!"

"It does not! It makes you look like a distinguished gentleman."

"Right. A distinguished _old_ gentleman."

Margret glared at him in mock anger. "Arthur Norman Merryweather, you are so stubborn."

"At least I didn't throw my cane _in the fire_."

"Who told you about that?"

"It doesn't matter."

She sniffed. "Well, as it happens, I didn't really throw my stockings in the fire. I only _hid_ them."

"Well, as it happens, it's been a month since I twisted my ankle. It's perfectly fine."

"It's only been three weeks and six days."

The driver of the landau looked back at them quizzically. "Are you sure you two wanted to get married?"

Sir and Lady Merryweather looked at each other and laughed. "We are arguing quite a bit, aren't we?"

"Exceedingly so."

Arthur kissed his bride. "Let's try not to argue anymore. We're almost to the house anyways."

"Our house. Our new home." She sighed. "I've never been one for housekeeping, but it does have a pleasant ring to it, doesn't it?"

He tapped her nose playfully. "Don't get too engrossed with it. We're leaving for India in a few days."

Margret's eyes sparkled. "Oh, I can't wait to see the marketplaces, and the people, and the camels."

"Camels are in Egypt, darling."

"No, I think they're in both countries."

Arthur laughed. "Well, we'll find out, won't we? It'll be a wonderful adventure."

Margret nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, but I think we're about to start out on an even bigger adventure, dear."

"What's that?"

She kissed him. "Our new life together. To be married is an awfully big adventure, you know. And I'm going to enjoy every minute of it, with you."

The carriage finally brought them to the setting of Captain Margret Merryweather's new adventure.

Her adventure of a different kind.

_Fín_.

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A/N: aaaaah! it's over! eeeeeep! i can't believe it, but it's really over! a LOT of research went into this, because i tried to make everything as accurate as possible. thanks to everyone who read! a special thanks to everyone who reviewed and/or favorited: Austenfan10, Turtles95, baymare, Chrysopale, janelover1, lotus elise, Artemis Acorn, The sixteenth of December, lovelytl23, illeria92, Tbonechick2011, GinevraEowynUndomiel, QOP, xony, HansQ, cucumber fairy, toasted cupcake, ComeSomedaySoon, Linnea7, Gothic-France, and jaz95.

you guys rock! without you, i would have fallen into a panicked and depressed writer's funk! you're the reason i was able to write each and every chapter! your reviews made me beam with writer-happiness!

thanks so much! watch for more fanfics!


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